


The Monarch Butterfly

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Butterflies, Canon-Typical Violence, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder Wives, Obsessive Behavior, Past Relationship(s), Reincarnation, Soul Bond, Stalking, Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Unsafe Sex, Violence, Writer Will Graham, past mcd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 02:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16547066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: In a world where people stop aging at 25 until they find their soulmate, Will and Alana are roommates. Will is a writer, using his time served at the FBI to inspire his stories. But his muse has run dry, and in its place are nightmares of another life he doesn't remember living. He meets Hannibal, who has aged from a past life with a soulmate taken from him too soon. If a soulmate dies of anything except natural causes, they are reincarnated into a new body. He remembers Will, would know him anywhere, and Will is quickly sucked into the mystery of his own murder. As well as that, there's a serial killer, the Monarch, trying to catch his attention, and as Will recovers his memories, it becomes obvious that their lives, both past and present, are all deeply intertwined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This year's submission for the Murder Husbands Big Bang! This was an absolute blast and I want to thank my wonderful artist khalexx for the amazing art! It's really wonderful I love it so much *sob* You can see their post on their tumblr [, please reblog it and tell them how amazing their art is because it's amazing!!! If you guys have any questions from the tags or summary, feel free to message me here or on Tumblr and I'll let you know what to expect! I hope you like it :D](https://khalexx.tumblr.com/post/179851135305/my-art-for-highermagics-amazing-fic-the-monarch)

The thing about biting through a human finger is that it takes about the same amount of pressure as biting through a cold carrot. Although not a particularly difficult practice when involving unfeeling, inanimate food, the mental block and the instinctive revulsion at the taste of sweat, the give of skin, and the unmistakable yet unnameable flavor of bone marrow can cause certain mental blocks in the less experienced of fighters.

Will is not an inexperienced fighter.

His opponent is a man named Francis, with more scars than smile lines on his face, tattoos from head to toe in swirling, black tribal patterns coming from a great red dragon on his back, and eyes reminiscent of ocean battered sea-glass, which are currently dark and narrowed on Will as he turns and melts into a ready stance for the next attack. Francis' bloody fingers flex and curl, too injured to form fists. He's tall, with the kind of build that isn't inherently threatening, but when his skin is bared one can see that whatever bulk he does have is all muscle. He's thick in the shoulders, skinnier in the legs.

Will's eyes fall to his ankles, focus and narrow. Francis lunges at him with a roar and Will dives down, brings his foot up and kicks down like a horse trapped in an on-fire stable. His heel connects with Francis' ankle and the man collapses with a snap of bone and a shriek of pain. Will walks past him, stride unbroken, and makes sure he stands clear as the whistle blows and the zebra-striped referee runs into the ring to assess the damage to Francis' leg.

If Francis can stand, the fight will continue. Will waits – for a whistle, a bell, the slight intake of breath from a captive audience. Nothing of that sort comes. The referee raises his fist, signaling the fight is over, and the roar of the crowd is almost deafening. Will smiles, off-kilter to save his bruised cheek the trouble, and turns to regard Francis as another man comes into the ring with a crutch and a robe, to help him upright and get him to the medical office.

"Good fight," Will says, holding out a hand to Francis as they pass.

Francis grins at him, slicks his bitten fingers through Will's and squeezes tight. "Catch ya next time."

Will lets him go, ducks his head and bows under the rope around the ring, towards the little aisle that stretches and parts the jeering crowd from the locker rooms where his clothes and belongings are. Will walks onward, ignoring the cat calls, the cries of his name both in adulation and derision, and breathes out a relieved sigh when he crosses the threshold into the locker rooms, the door closes behind him, and he is enveloped in merciful silence.

Silence that is, almost immediately, interrupted by a cry of his name.

"Will!"

Will sighs and heads to his locker, knowing the owner of the voice will follow him if past instances are any precedent. He goes to his locker, the last one in the third row, and opens it, taking out his duffle bag of street clothes and his plain brown boots, setting them down on the bench behind him. He peels off his sweat-sodden wristbands and, in the instant between freeing his wrists and rubbing them with a dry towel, Molly rounds the corner, a shadow of black and gold against the white tile backdrop.

"Another good fight!" Molly says, grinning wide, her teeth like the tile, bright and uniform. She used to be a fighter as well, and once she was well-paid enough to start sponsoring, she got a lot of surgeries to fix her broken nose, cheekbone, and wrecked teeth. She's got a kid now, a boy, and married her soulmate a little over a year ago.

Will huffs, rolling his eyes. "Francis took the fall," he replies. He's fought Francis before, and either Francis had been having one Hell of an off day, or he threw it. Although they're technically in the same weight class, Francis has a lot bigger reach and has trained for far longer. Will is too much of a rookie to be considered much of a threat. It's the classic dynamic of the fox versus the bear, but Will isn't particularly fast or wily either. The only reason he's made half a name for himself is what Molly likes to call 'Lack of fucks to give' – or, determination. He won't stop fighting until he can't fight anymore.

"Thrown fight, not thrown fight, a paycheck's a paycheck," Molly replies, still grinning.

"I guess," Will replies. "Alana with you?"

"Yeah, she's in the car out back. Want me to take her home?"

Will shakes his head. He hasn't seen his roommate in almost three days, since she's been busy with school and her day life and his night light overlap perfectly so that there's no regular point of interaction where they might be in the same space. "She's my ride," he replies, and Molly nods. She turns and rests her shoulders against the locker doors by Will's open one, humming a tune too off-beat to be recognizable as anything from the radio, and idly pulling her long hair to one side to braid it. "How bad is my face right now?"

"About a three," Molly replies, and Will nods. A three isn't bad – some bruising, maybe a little bit of blood. No open wounds or broken bones. Francis really didn't put everything into it today.

He wipes his hands and face clean of Francis' blood on his towel, and then shrugs an old t-shirt over his head, loose around the collar from many years of use, and takes off his tennis shoes to shove his feet into ill-fitting jeans that are only wearable when he has the basketball shorts he wears to fight on underneath. He used to be bigger, thicker in the legs and arms. But that was before he got sick. Now, more often than not, his attire makes him look like a ward of the state or a child whose parents insist he'll 'grow into' whatever clothes they provide him.

Molly tuts as Will puts on his boots, yanks the laces too tight, and places his tennis shoes into his bag. At least feet don't expand or shrink too badly. He shrugs his duffle bag over one shoulder and heads towards the back door, which leads to an alley behind the fighting club. Molly reaches out and shoves a roll of twenties into his hand as he passes.

"Stay safe, Will," she says gently. Will nods, thanking his friend with a weak smile, and heads outside.

Sure enough, Alana is there in Will's car, a silver smudge within the dark alley. She flashes the lights at him when he leaves the building, as though he wouldn't recognize the car, and he smiles at her and slides into the passenger side.

"Hey," she says, leaning across the middle console to give him a side-hug. He returns it, sitting back when she lets him go. Her bright eyes scan over his face and she sighs, shaking her head and tossing her mane of thick brown waves behind her shoulders. "You look slightly less like crap than normal."

"Nice to see you too," Will replies, the corner of his mouth without bruising quirking up higher. At her unimpressed huff, he grins and nudges his knuckles gently against her shoulder. "Come on. I'm starving. Let's go home."

 

 

 

Growing up, Will had never been in a particularly stable household. Such is the life when one parent abandons the other before one is old enough to walk. His father had made his living following the lives of fishermen, dragging Will from dock to dock, shore to shore, fixing boats and fishing when the haul was high. This meant at any moment Will could be flung into a new neighborhood, a new school, and sometimes a whole new state.

His father would say it was good for him, in the dark hours when there was more alcohol than blood in his body, that he would learn the ways of the world and maybe – winkwinknudgenudge – they'd run into Will's soulmate on their travels. It's better to mate young, people say. The younger you mate, the happier and stronger the bond.

Will met Alana when he was in college, and they ended up being roommates off campus and never stopped. Will is nearing thirty now. Alana turns twenty-eight in less than a month, though both of them have hit the aging threshold and look no different than they did at twenty-five. The worst part about aging is the slow, pitying horror that dawns in a stranger's eyes when they realize you're old, but not aging. Oh, the loneliness, oh, the empty nights and beds! As if finding one's soulmate is the reason for existing.

Will started getting sick when he was twenty-six. A bad fight and wildly off-balance odds sent him to the hospital with a ruptured spleen, three cracked and broken ribs, and a concussion that rendered him in and out of consciousness for several days. Will remembers the day he got out, because that was the day an FBI agent was shot in the line of duty during a bank robbery. It was all over the news.

It's also the same week Jack Crawford drew Will under his wing. Will didn't need to be in top physical health to do this job, he'd said. He just needed Will's imagination.

Since that day, since those injuries, he's been getting steadily worse. Coughing up blood when he goes too long without eating, like his stomach acid is devouring his organs without anything else to do. He gets periods of dizziness and weakness with little warning. Sometimes he has to sleep for almost a full day.

He hasn't had a correct diagnosis in so long, eventually he stopped trying. He's probably not dying and he's definitely not dead, which means there's nothing else for it.

"What was the cut tonight?" Alana asks, startling Will out of his dozing thoughts. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the roll. Judging from the thickness of it, the power of eye-balling his wages keenly honed after so many years doing it, he'd say it's a little upwards of seven hundred dollars.

She whistles, low. "Who did you fight today?"

"Francis," Will replies. "And Tony."

"I thought Francis was banned, since the knife thing," Alana says, lips pressed thin and turned down at the corners, brow heavy-set with concern as she eyes the scar on Will's cheek.

Will shrugs. "Guess they let him back in." He pauses, sighs, and gingerly feels at his cheekbone. Not cracked, but aching sharply. He doesn't let himself take painkillers, at the risk of upsetting his stomach. Which is unfortunate – he usually sleeps on his left side. "He didn't stab me. Went down quick. Guess he's out of practice."

Alana is silent, accepting that. After a moment, she turns from the main road and towards the gold-dotted dark shape of their apartment complex. "Molly told me there's this new app for finding soulmates," she says.

Will blinks at her.

"It's based off some doctor's 'Hot and Cold' theory, or something. Apparently seeing a picture of your soulmate is enough to trigger the reaction, and it'll basically show you parts of the world, and match you with people based on your reactions to those areas, and narrows it down from there. The reviews for it are pretty good."

"So even soul-bonding is going to be computerized," Will says, teasing. "Imagine what your mom would say about that."

Alana laughs. The overhead lights scan their faces as they pass through the parking lot, like items on a grocery store conveyor belt. She parks her car outside their apartment stairs and kills the engine.

"I just think it might be worth trying," Alana replies, fixing Will with her big blue puppy-dog eyes. "Maybe finding your mate will help you with…"

She doesn't finish. Will doesn't expect her to. He sighs, grabs the shoulder strap of his bag, and gets out of the car. "Maybe," he replies, neither ceding nor fighting her on it. He will admit that a lot of the world has come a long way in terms of finding one's soulmate. It's not as random as chance or fate anymore. People want to be mated – they want to find their other half, and grow old with them, and die happy with them.

Will can admit he wants that too. But.

"I will if you will," he finally says, halfway up the stairs to their apartment, which is on the second floor.

Alana squeals in delight, lightly punching the top of his arm. "Awesome! Oh, this'll be great." She pauses, and sighs, as Will busies himself with the keys. "I'll need a better picture of you, one where you don't look like an extra from _Rocky_."

He huffs, and opens the door. Their apartment is small, but clean. Will's dog, Winston, barks and trots up to them, tail wagging wildly. He's a brindle mutt, enough of some species in him to have a fluffy, drooping tail, sharp pointed ears, a deep bark and long legs. Winston headbutts Will right in the stomach and he huffs, pushing the dog away as Alana falls to her knees and throws herself over their pet's back.

"I'll walk him in a second," Will tells her, going into his room to set his stuff down. By the time he washes his face, brushes his teeth, makes sure none of his injuries are too severe, and returns to the main room, Winston is sitting by the door semi-patiently, and Alana is in the kitchen. Will smells pancake batter.

She grins at him, and nods to the door. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters as Winston licks his muzzle and whines. Will takes his leash, attaches it, and lets Winston haul him down the stairs and to the front lawn so he can go to the bathroom while Alana cooks. Will has had Winston for several years and he's trained enough not to go wandering, but their neighbors are nosey, and he's been reported more than once for violating the leash laws.

Upon his return, he finds Alana flipping the first set of pancakes, her tablet propped up against their toaster and what looks like a signup page for a dating website displayed on it. He unhooks Winston's leash and the dog immediately finds his spot on the couch, broken in the cushion and covered in stripes of brown and black fur. Will goes to the tablet and picks it up, ignoring Alana's half-hearted protest.

"I haven't finished my profile!" she complains, threatening him with a spatula.

"Does it matter? If it's your soulmate, it's your soulmate, yeah?"

" _Not_ yeah," she replies with a roll of her eyes. "You expect a machine to show me a billion people with no filtering? Answering questions helps the system, or whatever."

Will hums, swiping past the initial name and setup screen and seeing the first question pop up. "Do you want kids?" he asks, and idly taps between the one to five scale between 'Never' and 'Definitely'.

Alana hums, sliding the first set of pancakes onto a plate. "Put it to 'Definitely'," she replies.

Will raises an eyebrow. "You gonna adopt if your soulmate's a woman?"

"No, I'm gonna harvest your sperm and make a little curly-haired blue-eyed boy from it," Alana says coolly. Will rolls his eyes, sets the tablet down, and snags one of the pancakes from the top of the pile, taking a huge bite from it. It settles his stomach and he sighs, wincing when chewing agitates his bruised cheek.

He watches her finish making pancakes for both of them, before she turns off the stove and takes two for herself, covering them with a liberal amount of sugar-free syrup and taking her plate to their table. Will grabs another, puts it on a plate for propriety's sake, and sits next to her. She has her tablet propped up next to her, idly answering questions while they eat.

The hour is late, and Will is tired but knows sleep won't come to him easily. Another side effect of his unexplained illness – he has to wait until he's at the ultimate peak of exhaustion before he can fall asleep. And when he does sleep, he often lucid dreams, has waking nightmares that only Winston is trained to rouse him from safely.

Alana hums, cutting off another piece of pancake with the edge of her fork. "I'm thinking of going back to school," she says. "Get another degree."

"What in?" Will asks.

She shrugs. "Maybe criminal psychology."

"Family therapy not exciting enough for you?"

"I don't know," she replies. "When you were doing your thing with the FBI, I found it way more interesting. And working with children is…kind of depressing. If and when I start a family, I don't want to be bringing that stuff home with me."

Will nods. Winston rises from their couch and comes to Will's side, plopping himself down under his chair. Will tucks his feet against the animal's warm flank and sighs, picking up his second pancake. They remain in silence. Will has always liked his relationship with Alana, glad that she doesn't feel the need to fill silences with incessant talking and inane chatter.

They eat, and Will clears their plates and goes to his room. Winston follows.

 

  

 

The hour is late, late enough that it almost classifies as early. That magic time between four and five in the morning, where the Northern states see the tease of summer sunrises and the air is heavy with storms as the temperature steadily climbs.

Since Will got sick, his nights are often his most productive hours, where he can sit in the absolute silence of working men's rest, with naught but owls and foxes and insects to keep him company. They provide a soothing backdrop to the light breeze and the rumble of thunder on the horizon.

He sits on the modest patio of his apartment building, his laptop on his thighs, his feet braced on the guardrail that's just a little too low for comfort with children and animals, and sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. Behind the closed door, Winston is laying flat against the glass, his dark eyes fixed on Will's feet.

The blinking line of his empty word document mocks him, as it has for the past four hours. His phone chimes, ignored, telling him his editor has left him another voicemail asking for the first draft of his next book. Sometimes he wonders if she's as much of an insomniac as he is.

He hates being a cash pony for publishers. Things were easier when he was trying to make it as a writer, although his steadier income supplemented with his fighting money keeps him and Alana more than comfortable. When Lounds Publishing picked up his books, his popularity and audience boomed and now he's under pressure to churn out something new every quarter. Apparently, people love stories about serial killers, who knew?

Will sighs again, and reaches down past the arm of his deck chair to pick up his tumbler of whiskey. He takes a sip, glaring at the blinking line on the page. "Come on," he mutters into the glass, and takes another swallow, finishing it and gasping at the burn of alcohol in his throat.

Across the street from his apartment building sit old, stone houses. The kind that people with a lot of money can afford – technically, the kind he can now afford, if his indulgences swung so high. He often finds himself idly wondering if he should get one of those houses. Alana deserves a nice house – but, Will constantly reminds himself, she is not his soulmate, and they won't be living together forever.

They stand in blocks of blackness, some with twinkling porch lights to warn away any wayward, would-be robber. Will almost wants something to happen across the street, just to give him something to watch. Since he left the world of criminology, his hands-on experience has dwindled down to almost nothing. And with it, his muse is dried up and lost, sitting like some wretched orphan at his feet and begging for food.

He sighs again. It feels like all he does nowadays is sit, and sigh, and wait for inspiration to strike. He is suddenly very tired, despite having only been awake for a few hours. He closes his laptop and sets it down next to his glass, runs his hands through his hair, and stands.

He slides open the patio doors, and stops when he hears a car. He frowns, turning and watching as an arc of headlights splits the darkness of the street. He recognizes the car, as it is the only one of its kind. A dark Bentley, with tinted windows and gleaming rims. He pauses, and steps inside, closing the door. He hurries to the light at the front of the living room and turns it off, so he can watch without being seen himself.

The car stops in the row of parking spaces between his side of the road and the houses, and Will watches quietly as the headlights turn off, and a man gets out. Will recognizes the man, though he does not know his name.

He's tall and well-groomed, dressed in a checkered suit that Will is sure would look ugly on any working man. This man wears it well, however – it compliments the tan on his face and hands, the coppery-silver-ashen hair gelled back on his head. He has strong, discerning features – the kind of face people remember, as if the extravagant car and flashy suits wouldn't do the job. And he's physically older, in the way people are when they've met and lost their soulmate too soon.

Will sighs as the man locks his car, a thick black coat folded over his arm since the weather is too humid to wear it. He wonders what kind of man is up at this time of night, and laughs at himself because, well, he supposes it would be someone like him.

The liquor cabinet is calling his name, and he goes to it, takes out his bottle of whiskey from the ABC store and goes back out to the patio to refill his glass. By the time he settles on the porch again, there is a single light in the man's house. Will can see thick curtains framing the innards, revealing the dark gleam of a large dining room table, a display of stag horns around a mantle, and thickly-padded wooden chairs. Opulent, but not distastefully so.

Will watches, the empty word document for his next chapter forgotten, as a shadow passes through the room. The man has divested himself of his coat and his suit jacket, and sits in dark suit pants and a white shirt, a black vest over that. His tie is gone, discarded also, and in his hand is a glass half-full of a dark red wine.

He takes a seat at the head of his table, and looks contemplative. Will sits forward, nursing his tumbler of whiskey, and watches the man sit, and sip, his eyes on some part of the room Will cannot see.

Unbidden, a flash of heat rises in the base of his spine, and Will's frown deepens as he watches the man. It's a flicker of warmth, and could be passed off as the oppressive, humid heat that promises thunderstorms, but Will has been out here for most of the night and hasn't felt it before.

Interesting.

So lost is he in his watching of the man, he startles when his phone rings, shrill and loud at the side of his laptop. He hisses, picking it up, and grits his teeth when he sees Jack Crawford's name flashing across the screen. He answers it. "Will Graham."

"Will." Jack's voice is gruff, rough with sleep like he himself has just woken up. Will frowns, turning his eyes away from the man and paying attention as he hears a sound like Jack walking, then closing a door behind him. "Would you be able to get to Quantico today?"

Will winces. His decision to move away from consulting for the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit wasn't a popular one, least of all with Jack. "What's going on?" he asks, sitting back in his chair and sipping at his whiskey.

"He might be back."

Will blinks, his shoulders tensing abruptly. Even though nothing has moved in the quiet street in the last few minutes, he has the sudden urge to look around, to see if he can spot anything out of the ordinary. He sits up straighter and sets his glass down. "Are you sure?" he asks, whisper-quiet, afraid of being overheard.

"No," Jack replies. "That's why I need you."

Will sighs, and closes his eyes, rubbing his fingers down either side of his nose and pinching the bridge, only to wince when his injured cheek flares up in protest. "…Yeah," he replies, after another moment where he has to weigh the outcome of going into that old haunt, the ghosts and memories that cling there.

But Jack is right; he needs Will, to be sure.

"I can be there first thing," Will says.

"Good," Jack replies. "I'll have the report and photographs ready for you."

"There's a live scene?" Will asks, opening his eyes again and blinking, naturally drawn to the single light in the house of the nameless, regal man who lives across the street. He hasn't moved, but the wine in his glass sits a little lower.

Jack makes a noise of acknowledgement and Will grunts, cursing the fact that he's been drinking and reasonably isn't sober enough to drive. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he tells Jack. "I'll let you know when I'm on my way."

"Alright," Jack replies. "Good."

Will ends the call, sighing and rubbing his hands up through his hair, over his face. He sets down his glass and gets to his feet, picks up his laptop and carries it inside, throwing it onto his couch next to Winston. He goes back for his whiskey and puts the tumbler down by his coffee machine, which was a gift from his father when he graduated. He takes one of the pods and starts what he hopes is a passable cup of coffee to sober himself up. He pours himself a glass of water while he waits, drinks it down, fills it again.

He sits down, sighing again, and turns on the television. If there is a live crime scene, it's possible that some news channel has already picked it up. The first channel is doing the morning weather report, the second has a crash being reported.

The third…

"We're going to Stephanie with live coverage of the scene."

"Thanks, Michael. I'm currently standing outside of a dog park on the East side of Annapolis. Behind me you can see the Baltimore police and FBI investigating the crime scene. No details have been released as of yet, but we can confirm that there are two victims, both white males, displayed in the kind of macabre scene that is unfortunately becoming a regular sight for our beautiful city."

Will frowns, sucking in a breath between his teeth, and rubs under his eyes. He folds his hands together around his glass of water, closes his eyes, and heaves another breath. "Please don't let it be him," he whispers to himself. "Please -."

"Oh, we have a visual! Let's get a little closer."

Will opens his eyes, sitting forward in rapt attention as the camera trundles closer to the yellow tape. There are a few other reporters there, shouting to their contacts on the force, and Will straightens when he sees the scene a little way away, quickly zoomed in upon;

Two men, one of them kneeling, his arms outstretched towards the second. His face has been peeled back, revealing white staring eyes fixed on the standing man's chest, which is cleaved open to reveal a cavity where the heart should be. The kneeling man's face is sewn into a smile, thick black lines of wire stark against his pale skin.

There's no blood. There never is blood.

"Son of a bitch," he whispers.

"Agent Crawford!" the reporter calls, as Jack steps into view amidst the coroners and forensic analysts. Will sees Beverly behind him, talking to Jimmy. Her hair has gotten longer. "Agent Crawford, can you confirm that this is the work of the Monarch?"

"No comment," Jack says, his voice low, expression closed off and thunderous. He turns away from the reporter and walks towards the crime scene and the reporter huffs, and gestures to her camera man, and they circle the yellow tape. Will catches a flash of blistered, peeling skin on the standing man's back and then his coffee machine beeps, and his attention is pulled away.

He turns off the television and stands, goes to the machine and pours the coffee into his half-empty water glass so that it's cold enough to chug. He does so, swallowing it down in three large gulps.

His hands are shaking. Three months. It's been three months since the Monarch surfaced, since he started leaving his mark upon Baltimore in displays rivaling even the Chesapeake Ripper. Will wonders, idly, if they're in some kind of rivalry, or courtship with each other, for whenever the Monarch leaves his art, the Ripper is soon to follow with an answer.

Will hasn't worked for or with the BAU in almost a year, but he remembers the last crime scene he saw, the last gift the Ripper left. He still has nightmares about it.

He waits another half hour until his head feels relatively clear, and sheds his clothes quickly, jumping into the shower. There's enough light now to see by in his room, so he doesn't bother turning on the lights. He showers quickly, eager to get to the crime scene before Jack clears it and the evidence, the emotion, is lost. He has always worked better when the kills are fresh.

When he's done, he dresses and grabs his keys, phone, and wallet, sliding them into his pockets and donning his old fishing jacket. He takes his phone out, checks that he has the key to his apartment, and hurries down the stairs.

"Jack," he says, when Jack answers on the third ring. "I'm on my way. Where should I meet you?"

"May as well come to the scene," Jack replies. He knows Will is in Baltimore nowadays, and at this hour the drive will be short. "I'll text you the address."

"Thanks," Will says, and hangs up. He gets into his car, turning it on. His eyes naturally gravitate to the house opposite. The man is gone, the lights are off. He must have retired to bed. The warmth in Will's spine flickers and dies like a candle blown out.

Will presses his lips together, puts his car in drive, and pulls out of his spot. It doesn't occur to him until he's a few miles away that the timeline matches up rather perfectly, and then laughs at himself.

"Going stir crazy," he mutters. He must be, if he's imagining his unassuming neighbor to be someone like the Monarch.

 

  

 

Will pulls up at the crime scene, noting that although the haze of flashing red and blue lights has dissipated somewhat, the crowd of photographers and media outlets has grown exponentially. He also sees, amidst the crowd, the fiery red curls of his editor, Freddie Lounds, and grimaces.

He gets out of his car, hoping to duck past everyone and find Jack, and freezes at the call of his name.

"Will! Will!"

He stops, turning to meet Freddie as she bustles over to him. She has a notepad in her hand and her eyes are wide, and she stops when she sees the bruising on his face. Her eyes rake him over and she presses her lips together, recovering quickly, and closes the rest of the distance.

"You've got to get me this story," she tells him by way of greeting.

Will huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We don't know if it's the Monarch, Freddie," he says tightly. He spots Jack's face over her shoulder and makes eye contact, finds Jack's thundery expression fixed on the back of Freddie's head. Will lifts his hand in a little wave – he'll be over there as soon as she releases him.

"Even if it isn't the Monarch, this is a big kill, Will," she replies sharply. "The kind that might actually get you off your ass and writing again."

Her voice is clipped, full of judgement, and Will winces, tonguing the inside of his good cheek. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"The people are hungry."

"Yeah, I know," Will replies darkly. Hungry, always hungry for more. People devour stories and scream for seconds before the meal has settled. Tasteless. "I'll see what I can do," he says, because he knows she won't let him go unless he gives her at least that.

He clears his throat when she huffs, blowing a curl out of her face. "Well, I should be going," he adds meaningfully, and skirts around her, towards the line of yellow tape separating the crowd and the crime scene. Jack lifts it for him and he ducks under, hands still in his pockets as he approaches the crime scene.

"What was the time of death?" Will asks, knowing Jack will get right to the point. One of the reasons Will likes him – whenever they worked together, Jack had no time nor the inclination to ferret around the issue. He's straightforward like that.

"Midnight," Jack says. "Bodies were discovered about two hours ago. The standing one died first."

"Notably?" Will asks, surprised.

Jack nods. "He died a few hours before, according to Zeller."

Will nods, taking in that information. "That's unusual," he says.

"I know."

Will approaches the crime scene, giving a nod to Beverly, as she notices him first. Her expression is tight, like she wants to greet him in a friendly way and catch up, but they're at work, and she knows better than most why Will left this position in the first place.

Will sighs, nods to her again, and looks towards the bodies. He steps closer, absently registering Jack's order to clear the area. He approaches the two men, looks down at the kneeling man's smiling face. He's young, too young to tell if he has a soulmate and has experienced aging. The other one is older, likely mated. Will swallows.

He closes his eyes, watches the golden pendulum swing back and forth behind his eyelids. When he opens his eyes again, both men are standing. The open chest cavity regains its heart, seals itself inside the older man's chest. The smiling man isn't smiling anymore, his face cold and passive.

Will circles the bodies, slowly. He looks around, notes the openness of the park, the lack of coverage. "I risked a lot, bringing them here," he murmurs. The fact that the bodies were discovered soon after is another testament to that. "This place means something to me."

He stops, kneels down next to where the kneeling man is, and holds his hands out. "I put him on his knees, begging for my…love." He cups his hands, frowns down at them. A heart settles itself into place, still beating, and he drops it with something like disgust. "I gave you a dear gift, but you didn't want it."

He looks up, meets the older man's eyes. They're whited out in death, his cheeks pale. His upper lip curls, unbidden. He doesn't feel the wet grass against his knees, doesn't feel the wind. Everything exists as though outside of time and space – the place where lovers and soulmates meet and bond.

"Well, you're going to take it."

He shoves himself to his feet, sees himself tearing out the older man's heart while it still beats in his chest. A human hand can't do that, not without tools, but he manages in his mind's eye, rips it clean out and takes it for later.

He startles. _Ripper_.

"The Monarch doesn't take organs," Will whispers.

"I know," Jack says, startling Will out of his thoughts. The amber hue abruptly clears, the world returns to grey and green, and Will looks over at Jack, finds him standing a little way back with Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian flanking him like bodyguards.

Will frowns and circles the standing man. On his back, blistered and red, is the brand of the butterfly. "He left his signature," Will says, reaching out, fingers curling just shy of the skin. He can't touch without gloves. "This doesn't make sense."

Was this a joint kill?

No. The Ripper and the Monarch don't play well with others.

"What do you see, Will?"

"I see force," Will replies tightly, baring his teeth. "I see…desire."

"Desire?" Beverly repeats, brows rising. They've been desensitized, it seems, to how he works.

"I will give you my heart, whether you want it or not," Will whispers. He navigates the bodies again, brushes his fingers along the air around the stitches on the kneeling man's face. Then, quieter; "We were so happy, once. We could be that way again."

"…Will?" Jack hazards, frowning at him.

"I don't…think this is the Monarch," Will says, slowly, unsure. "Or, it is, but…"

He stops, and heaves a frustrated breath. "Is the heart the only thing missing?"

Jack nods.

"I think the Monarch killed one of them," he adds. "The Ripper killed the other."

A shocked gasp meets his declaration. Jack's expression, though perturbed, doesn't change. "They were killed several hours apart. The Ripper killed this one," he points to the standing man, "and took his heart, and the Monarch found the body and made this display with his own addition." He lets his hand fall, runs his other one though his hair, winces when he bites his lower lip and it hurts his cheek to do it.

Jack is quiet for a moment, then; "So they're both back."

Will nods, a shiver of cold dread running down his spine. He straightens and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Well, if that'll be all -."

"Will, wait." Jack follows him, puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him fleeing the crime scene. Jack's eyes rake over his face, take in his bruised cheek and jaw, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his clothes hang off him now from too long malnourished and sick.

"What is it, Jack?" Will asks, unable to stop his voice betraying how tired he feels. He registers, absently, that what he's feeling is disappointment. It's been so long with silence from the Monarch, Will had hoped he'd moved on, had found greener pastures to wet with blood. But he's still here, and working with the Ripper in some indirect way now. Will doesn't like it, and he isn't quite able to pinpoint why.

Jack sighs, folds his hands together in front of him and fixes Will with a look reminiscent of his father when Will accidentally tied a knot wrong or got a bad grade in class. "If the Monarch, or the Ripper, or both are back, I need you," Jack says. "I can't let them slip through my fingers again."

"Sounds like a personal problem," Will says before he can stop himself. He swallows when Jack's expression darkens, lowers his head and shifts his weight. He clears his throat. "I left for a reason, Jack."

"And saving lives isn't a reason to come back?" Jack asks.

Will growls, bares his upper teeth, and lifts his head. "Does that look like saving lives?" he demands, gesturing towards the bodies. Jack blinks at him, pressing his lips together, and Will sighs, rubbing his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, Jack. I can't…I can't go back into those kinds of places anymore."

"Will," Jack begins, then stops. He sighs again. "Just think about it, alright?"

Will huffs a breath, wants to say 'No' again, but he knows Jack won't relent. And there is some responsibility Will feels he must shoulder – he was the one to identify the difference between the Monarch and the Ripper in the first place, after all.

"Alright," he replies.

Jack nods, a ghost of a smile on his face. The kind men wear when they've won. "I'll let you know if they find anything else," he says, and Will nods, and turns quickly, fleeing to his car and past the reporters, past Freddie, until the door closes, and he's enveloped in blessed silence. He doesn't give himself time to adjust, but pulls away from the scene and speeds towards the highway, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the scene as possible.

He tries to ignore the feeling that that park, that place, felt so familiar. It isn't the first time he's felt something like this, some after-echo of something familiar, that makes him feel safe. Like he has nothing to fear in that kind of place. It's that sensation that scares him more than anything else.

 

  

 

When he gets back to the apartment, Alana is awake and making herself breakfast. "Hungry?" she asks.

"Always," he replies, smiling and leashing Winston so he can take him outside. The dog trots to his usual spot and goes to the bathroom and Will takes him back in and lets him loose, shrugging off his jacket and flinging it over the back of the couch before he takes a seat at their dining room table.

Alana comes to him with a plate of eggs and spinach leaves, a fork, and some more coffee, all of which Will accepts gratefully. She sits with her own plate and they tuck into their food. "Any luck with the app?" he asks her around a mouthful of eggs.

She shrugs one shoulder. "Got it narrowed down to Maryland," she replies.

"Local," Will says. "That makes things easier."

She nods. "I hope so," she replies with a soft hum.

Will regards her, takes in the slight inward curl of her shoulders, the tightness of her mouth. "It'll be okay," he says after another moment. "You'll find someone, I know it."

"Do you?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Will nods. Of one thing he is certain; Alana will not be doomed to wander the world for centuries at a time, condemned to be alone with only bedfellows and empty relationships for company. "I know it," he says again, and squeezes her hand briefly. "You're gonna find someone, and get married and pop out a shitton of kids and I'll be the weird uncle they go to when they want to play with dogs and drink underage."

She blinks at him, and her eyes widen in mock outrage. "You are _not_ going to get my children drunk!" she exclaims, hitting him on the shoulder. But she's smiling, so Will counts it as a win.

"Scout's honor," Will replies, grinning.

She rolls her eyes, finishes her food, and stands. "I have to go give a lecture," she says apologetically, like she hasn't been working at the University for years now. Will smiles, and nods, and she hugs him loosely and kisses the top of his head. "Can you clear my place?"

"Sure," Will replies, and she thanks him again, gives Winston a kiss between his ears, and grabs her purse as she heads out the door in a flourish. Will watches her go, and sighs, appetite suddenly gone. He stands and clears their plates.

His laptop beckons him, and he goes to it, takes it to his porch and opens it as he settles into place. As the machine whirs to life, the fan kicking into overdrive and the screen fogging up from the humidity, he watches her go to her car and drive away.

His attention is drawn by a door opening across the street. It's the man's house. His garden is thickly lined with butterfly bushes, and they are covered with butterflies with bright, gently fanning blue and orange wings. They scatter as he passes, and Will finds himself smiling, another flicker of heat in his chest expanding from behind his heart, curling around his spine.

He's staring, and he knows he is, and he freezes when the man approaches his car, stops, and lifts his head, his eyes locking with Will's from the small distance.

Will freezes, his eyes wide. He can't look away, can't move. The heat in his chest suddenly turns sharp and he gasps, fingers curling around his laptop as it flutters down like there's a flurry of butterflies in his stomach, suddenly disturbed by a gale-force wind.

The man smiles. "Good morning," he calls. He has an accent, Eastern-European if Will had to guess. The heat in his chest abruptly flares, tightens, settles low.

"Good morning," he replies, because he has to say something back. He clears his throat and winces at the sound of his hoarse voice. He runs his hand through his hair and shifts his weight in his chair.

The man's smile widens, his eyes dark, sharp features fiercely pleased as though he delights in having caught Will off guard. "How's the novel coming?" he asks.

Will frowns at him, the warmth giving way to chilly confusion. "My -? How did you know -?"

"You're Will Graham, correct?" the man asks. Will blinks at him. "I recognize you from your book covers."

"Oh. Um. Yes." Will clears his throat and swallows. That makes sense, at least – Freddie had insisted on putting his picture in the back of his book covers, claiming that his 'pretty face' would help them sell. And, looking at his numbers, he's not entirely sure she was wrong. "Yeah, that's me."

"I'm a big fan," the man says. His smile hasn't changed. He looks terribly pleased at putting Will off-kilter. Will looks away, and swallows. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Doctor Lecter."

Will frowns, the name causing a flicker of recognition. "Doctor Lecter?" he repeats, and looks back at the man, tries to remember his first name. "You were Alana's mentor when she was doing her degree."

The man – _Hannibal,_ Will abruptly remembers as being his name – blinks, and his smile widens. "Yes," he replies, quiet happily like Will is a favorite child that just learned a new trick. "You know Alana?"

"She's my roommate," Will replies, and it sounds like he's hearing an echo back of his voice, like it's not coming from him but he's listening in on the other end of a telephone, slightly delayed and tinny. Hannibal nods, accepting that information, and Will clears his throat and sits up a little straighter. "She spoke very highly of you."

"I'm flattered," Hannibal replies coolly, and Will flushes. He gets the impression that Hannibal is in on a joke he doesn't get. The man is watching him with something like fondness, as one might a beloved pet or an interesting piece of interactive art. "Well, Will, it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I wish you luck with your next work."

Will nods, and swallows, watching as Hannibal gets into his car and starts it. He can't tear his eyes away from the Bentley as its reverse lights gleam, Hannibal backs out of his spot, and then shifts gears and starts to pull away. The driver side is closest to Will, and as Will watches, Hannibal turns, meets his eyes, and offers him a little wave.

Will waves back, fingers curling when he realizes what he's doing. He flushes, biting his lower lip, and looks back at the blinking line of his open Word document.

Several things occur to him, in quick succession. One; Hannibal made no mention, nor did he seem distracted by or bothered by, the bruising on Will's face. Two; Alana and he have lived opposite Doctor Lecter for almost a year now and she made no mention of the fact that they were neighbors.

And three…it's very possible that Hannibal is somehow related to Will's soulmate. The sensation of hot and cold is one almost universally accepted, and cold snaps and flares of unexplained heat are usually intrinsically linked to the presence of one's soulmate, or lack thereof.

Will hadn't had an extreme reaction, but they hadn't been standing too close together. Yet, he felt _something_.

Winston's barking draws his attention, and he sighs, getting up and going inside to fill his bowl. Doctor Lecter can't possibly be Will's soulmate, of course not – he's aged before, which means he's found and lost his mate before, and he would know if Will was his and would have surely acted upon it before now, if they were.

And _yet_ , Will has never felt that heat before. Not since…

He shakes himself from such thoughts. His head hurts, and he wishes he were able to take painkillers without upsetting his stomach. The migraine is sudden, and sharp, and fiercely pricks at the back of his eyes, and he eyes the medicine cabinet like one might a growling, foreign dog.

"Fuck it," he murmurs. He opens the cabinet and takes out some aspirin, swallows two pills dry and washes it down with a glass of water.

 

 

 

"You are mine."

Will's stomach is in knots, there's blood in his mouth, welling up and falling from behind his teeth onto the floor between his knees. He clutches at his stomach, tears of reflexive pain in his eyes as he heaves. His chest is a mess of fresh cuts, his hands covered in his own blood, and he kneels before the altar of a would-be god and screams for the Devil.

A man – faceless, nameless – kneels in front of him, cups his face and kisses him harshly. Will growls, parts his jaws, lets the man's tongue enter his mouth and then bites down, severs it with teeth too sharp.

Biting through flesh is so much easier than a finger.

He spits out the tongue, snarls when the man shrieks and staggers back. Will bares his teeth, grins wide and heaves another shuddering breath. "Now we match," he growls.

Though Will can see his face, he has no features. Nothing but black, white canvass as though his face is blurred out. The man's blood stands out, a stark red river that mixes with Will's own. Joint threads of destiny, of fate. Will braces himself, pushes himself to his feet. He wants to look around, take in his surroundings, find an exit. But there's no way out. The man snarls at him, rushes him, clawed, fanged, big as a beast, and Will chokes as claws like those of a long-dead predator sink into his stomach and curl up.

The hand in his hair is gentle, and he receives another kiss, this time on the forehead. He's soaked in sweat, trembling, and falls to his knees in the arms of the beast.

The creature can't talk, but it doesn't matter. Will has heard his voice before;

"I'll see you in the next life, my love."

 

  

 

Will surges into the waking world with bile in his throat and sweat covering his body. He manages to roll over onto his belly, hang his head off the side of his bed before he starts to vomit, bloody saliva and half-digested eggs heaved from the pit of his stomach. He moans, trembling from the aftereffects of the dream, from the instinctive fear that always comes with that dream, from pain as his injured stomach tenses and revolts against him and he heaves again, adding more to the pile on the side of his bed.

Winston whines, jumps up from the bed, and noses at the mess.

Will grimaces. "Don't eat that," he says, shoving at the dog. "That's disgusting."

Winston huffs, and sits.

Will rolls onto his back, grimacing when his back meets the cold wet spot left behind by his sweat. He takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his face, and blinks at the popcorn ceiling. "Been a while since we had that dream," he mutters to no one in particular. Sometimes it's nice to just say things, when no one is around to judge.

Will has had nightmares for as long as he can remember. They got worse when he started to work for the FBI. He's not an idiot – seeing the Monarch's work again, he knows they triggered that dream. They always have. Something about this particular killer _gets_ to Will, something about him is so dreadfully familiar, older than memory, more solid than the soul.

He can't fight the feeling that, perhaps, Will has met him before.

He needs to get up and clean his floor, otherwise Winston _will_ eat the mess. He sighs, standing and getting to his feet, carefully avoiding the too-liquid mess on the floor. He goes to his bathroom, takes out the fresh container of Clorox wipes, and his trash can, and comes back to the room. By the time he's done, wincing at the smell and the slick feeling behind the lemon-scented wipes, his alarm clock reads that it's just past three in the afternoon.

Winston is wagging his tail when Will empties his trash can into the main one in the kitchen, and pulls the bag free, replacing it and tying the full one off. He takes Winston's leash and heads to the door, only to stop and frown when he sees an envelope has been pushed below it, and sits in the hallway, face-up. The front of it has his name in neat, dark ink, a calligraphic scrawl that takes up most of the front.

He sets the bag and leash down, picks up the envelope and places it on the counter. He takes out the trash and lets Winston relieve himself before hurrying back upstairs. It wouldn't be a shock if one of his neighbors called in about his disheveled, sweaty state. Every time he steps outside his apartment looking anything less than presentable, he's surprised people don't try and report him as a squatter. Especially the older couple who live in the apartment below him.

His attention is drawn by the envelope again and he unhooks Winston's leash, sets it down on the counter, and takes the letter in hand. There's no return address – there wouldn't be, as this was obviously hand-delivered instead of placed inside his mailbox.

He opens it. There's a sheet of thick paper inside, and he carefully removes it from the envelope, registering absently the scent of lemongrass on the page;

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter requests the pleasure of your company for dinner, Friday night, 7 p.m."

Will blinks, and then his eyes widen. "Holy shit," he whispers. He goes to the patio doors and peers out, but doesn't see the Bentley. When did Hannibal deliver this? He's only been asleep for a few hours at most.

And Hannibal…wants to invite him to dinner. Friday – tomorrow night. "Jesus Christ," he murmurs, running his free hand through his sweat-sodden hair. He blinks at the paper again, and swallows, and looks to Winston. "Should I…go?"

Winston, predictably, has no wise words in reply. He simply gazes at Will with his dark, intelligent eyes, and licks his muzzle.

Will nods to himself, breathes in deeply, and looks down at the invitation again. His phone chimes from his bedroom and he sighs, sets it down on the table, and checks his messages.

It's from Alana.

"Yes, you're going. I'm going to help you pick out something nice to wear. No arguments."

Will blinks at his phone, frowns, and rolls his eyes. "Well," he murmurs. "I guess that's that."

 

  

 

Will's ears are ringing, and his stomach aches sharply from a series of fierce-knuckled blows aimed straight for his sternum, stopped just shy and hitting his gut instead thanks to nothing more than his reflexes and willingness to take a blow anywhere that isn't bone. Bones take too long to heal.

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, sees his knuckles and skin come back bloody, and spits a wad of red saliva onto the ground by his foot as he staggers to his feet. The man he's fighting today is, quite frankly, huge. Bald and beady-eyed, he makes Will think of overgrown rats and vultures too well-fed from the carcasses on a battlefield. His bearing is one of a raging bull, a knight's charger, ready to leap forward into the fight.

Will stays low, circles as the man – his name might be Colin, Cameron, Cordell, something like that, he can't remember – bares his teeth at Will, stands straight and tall, exposing the thick girth of his stomach and the sweaty muscles in his chest and shoulders. He's too big for Will to simply overpower, too thick to get in a good blow to his kidney or somewhere else that would bring him down.

His eyes drop to the man's knees, his ankles. He's wearing long black sweatpants that hide any potential vulnerability, so Will cannot tell if he's as muscled and sturdy there as the rest of him, but he has to try. The man rushes him, one meaty fist aimed for Will's head, and Will ducks, slams his shoulder against the man's chest and grunts when it barely makes him flinch.

He kicks at the man's ankle, and though he receives a hiss of pain for his efforts, the guy doesn't fall. He wraps his thick fingers in Will's hair and hauls him back, other hand going around his neck and lifting him to his toes.

He bares his teeth at Will as Will splutters, tries to control his breathing, claws at the man's thick hands as they tighten around his neck. "You're mine now," he says, and Will's spine goes cold, he trembles and bares his teeth.

 _You are mine_.

He's not…one hundred percent certain what happens next. If someone were to ask him, in an interview after the fight, what he was thinking or how he managed to save his neck, he would have not been able to say. Rather, he watches through a looking glass, a magic crystal ball. Watches as his eyes flash, darken, his feet come up and kick the bigger man right in the face, breaking his nose under the heel of his shoe.

Watches as the man shrieks, falling back but not letting go of Will's neck. He brings Will close and Will grabs him by his ears, yanks him in, bites down on the meaty flesh of his cheek and yanks back so that the man lets him go, roaring in pain and clutching his bleeding face.

Watches as he spits out the chunk of flesh, huffs a snarl, bares his teeth at the other man and waits to be rushed again.

But he does not get rushed. Those beady eyes glare at him with barely restrained malice, but they are watery with reflexive and pained tears. His vision is compromised, and even raging bulls and stallions know when they've come across a creature that will not back down. Clutching his bleeding cheek and covering his nose, the man raises his closed fist in the signal to yield.

Will straightens, and wipes his hand over his mouth. His throat is sore and bruised, he can't really stand up all the way straight, forced to curl his shoulders and breathe shallowly so he doesn't aggravate the punches dealt to his gut. His thigh, too, aches from a particularly savage kick when he went down early in the fight.

But he won.

It feels like an empty victory, and he isn't sure why, but he accepts the wet towel and thousand dollars Molly hands him without a word of complaint.

 

 

 

He goes to the BAU Friday morning, decided. If he's going to be having nightmares again, he's not going to let it happen in vain.

He approaches Jack's office just as the door opens, and a man steps out, and Will freezes to a halt, while at the same time a tidal wave of warmth rushes over his skin, like he's opening the door to an oven and has become soaked in the heat from inside.

Hannibal leaves Jack's office. He's tall, up close, though not much taller than Will, he bears himself with a grace that makes it feel like he takes up the whole hallway. His cheekbones bear a pretty flush, like he is warm as well.

Which would make sense. If they're somehow connected, being around Jack would give him an after-echo of the soulmate bond, since Jack knows Will.

Hannibal closes the door, lifts his head and meets Will's eyes. Will blinks, struck dumb, unable to break gazes from the sight of him. He's wearing a dark blue suit, his tie the same bright color of the butterflies outside his house, in a swirling pattern of sky blue and white.

He smiles, and Will blushes, ducking his gaze. "Will, good to see you again," he says. He doesn't reach his hand out to shake. Will's fingers curl.

"And you," Will replies, and clears his throat. "I, um -."

He skirts forward, to the right. If he touches Hannibal and they are mates, the reaction will be immediate and extreme, and this is certainly not the place for even tempting that kind of fate. Hannibal moves for him, albeit less dramatically than Will does, so that Will is in real danger of brushing against him as he moves past.

"I didn't know if you expected an R.S.V.P., for tonight," Will adds once he's safely past Hannibal, his back to Jack's office door. He lifts his eyes and finds Hannibal still smiling at him, fond and affectionate, still that same cool amusement like he's in on a joke Will hasn't been told. This close, Will can see the colors making up his iris, the browns and subtle hints of gold and red. He swallows, the warmth in his chest fluttering frantically like a bird in a cage, and ducks his head again. "But, I mean, I'll be there. I'm looking forward to it."

"Excellent." Hannibal's eyes brighten, and then fall to Will's split lip, take in his bruised neck. There's something there, buried deep but moving, that fills Will with the sudden and overwhelming urge to turn his head to one side and give him a better view.

He doesn't. His fingers curl and he clears his throat, ignoring the part of him that seems intent on arching and purring under Hannibal's gaze. "I should go," he murmurs, and Hannibal straightens, as though he himself has come out of a trance.

He nods, and smiles, showing his teeth. Will wants to bare his in return. "I'll see you tonight, Will. Come hungry."

Then he turns and walks towards the main part of the building. Will watches him go, and fights down the urge to give chase.

He turns, and knocks on Jack's door, opening it when he receives a terse 'Come in'. Jack looks up when he enters, features smoothing out in surprise. He straightens in his chair. "Will. What can I do for you?"

"I want to help," Will says, closing the door behind him. Jack blinks at him. "If the Monarch and the Ripper are back, I want to help you catch them. You're right – they can't slip through our fingers again. I can't let that happen again. I want -."

He stops himself, swallowing back his next words. _I want to get better_. After all, if Hannibal _is_ his soulmate, Will can't be doing stupid shit like fighting like his life depends on it and having waking nightmares that soak his bed and leave piles of vomit on the floor. That's not fair to anyone involved. And if he's going to leave this world as anything, it'll be a Goddamn victor.

Jack blinks at him again, and then he nods. "Good," he replies briskly.

Will nods, once, sharply. He can feel Jack's eyes on his neck. "Just letting you know," he says, stepping back so that he can leave. Jack stands.

"Will." Will stops. "We found that the branding was done post-mortem. Supports your Ripper-first theory."

Will nods.

"I'd like to know your thoughts on why that kind of thing might happen. Serial killers are usually solitary, especially ones like the Ripper and the Monarch. What would cause a partnership like this?"

Will steps back into the office and closes the door behind him. He sighs, running his hands through his hair, and takes a seat opposite Jack. His gut hurts and he's hungry, but hadn't been able to stomach the idea of the any of the food they had in their house. And he knows better by now than to force himself to eat something that makes his gut clench like that.

"It's not a partnership," he says after a moment of silence. Jack raises an eyebrow. "It feels more like a…rivalry, almost. But it's not that, either. I don't know the word for it."

"How do you mean?"

"A rivalry implies that they see each other as equals, but it feels more like…like they just happen to be in the same place as the same time. Their kills have a direction, but I don't think they're pointing at each other."

_You are mine._

_I'll give you my heart, and you'll take it whether you like it or not._

"That's the missing piece," Will says, sudden clarity sweeping across his vision like the arc of golden light. He meets Jack's eyes, finds him staring at Will's bruised neck before they snap to his gaze and hold. "If we can figure out who the Monarch and Ripper are writing their letters to, it'll get us one step closer to finding them."

"So you believe they have a mutual acquaintance," Jack says. "That they're both trying to impress this person." Will nods. "Seems…very high school."

"Whoever this person is, I don't believe they realize just what kind of attention they've drawn to themselves," Will murmurs. "Hell, they might not even be in this life. They might have died already, and this is their legacy. Two serial killers in love."

Jack makes an uncomfortable, disgusted sound. "You know, Will, you're probably right. But I hope you're not."

Will grimaces, and winces when his bruised cheek flares up in protest. "Yeah," he replies. "I hope so, too."


	2. Chapter 2

"So were you ever going to, you know, tell me that your college mentor is our neighbor?"

Alana looks up, her eyes widening when she sees the new bruises and cuts on Will's face and neck. "What the Hell happened to you?" she demands, folding her arms across her chest.

"I had another fight," Will replies. "Don't avoid the question."

Alana presses her lips together and sighs, heavily, through her nose. She rolls her eyes. "I didn't think it was important," she says. "I mean, he and I will hang out in a professional setting and sometimes I help him out with his dinner parties, but it's not like we're _close_."

"Except now he's invited me to dinner," Will replies, shrugging off his coat and throwing it onto the couch. "Just me. Not you, too. Why is that? He knows we live together."

At that, her expression turns sly and fond. "Thank God you're pretty," she replies.

Will grimaces. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, why would you and I have people over for dinner?"

"Because they're our friends," Will says. "Or _your_ friends," he adds, somewhat sullenly.

" _Or_?" she adds emphatically.

Will looks at her, and then he winces, blushing. "It's not a date," he says, and knows immediately that that's exactly what this is.

She grins. "And _that_ is why it's a good thing you're pretty."

"Alana, he's aged. Which means he's already found his soulmate, okay? He's not going to want me over for anything like that."

"He's been that old for as long as I've known him," Alana replies.

Will pauses, looking towards her again. Of course, if Hannibal is his soulmate, or related to them somehow, it would make sense that he wouldn't age because Will hasn't touched him, hasn't triggered that in him again.

But that also means, if that's the case, that…

"Oh my God," he murmurs.

Alana grins, clapping her hands together. "He might be it, Will!"

"No, but that means…" Will swallows, frowning down at his hands. His fingers curl and he feels, in them, a pulse of warmth, something sudden and frantic and he knows that Hannibal is home, he can hear the whir of an engine outside, the creak of a gear shift from drive to park. "That means I was alive before. That I… _died_."

_That he knows I died._

Alana's face softens, and she goes to him, takes his hands in both her own and lifts them so they're held between their chests. "Will," she says, ducking her head so he's forced to meet her gaze. "If you guys are soulmates, don't you want to find out?"

Will swallows, clenching his jaw. His knuckles are bloodied and bruised, hands callused, at direct odds with her gentle, pale fingers. "I won't be the person he knew before," he says. After all, he's damaged now – sick, a fighter, and he has nightmares and hunts serial killers and sometimes forgets that he shouldn't let them follow him home.

He shakes his head and wrings his hands free. "I should cancel."

"Oh, no," she says, shoving him towards his bedroom door. "You're not backing out. I'll never let you hear the end of it, and it would be rude to cancel so close to the time. Now, come on. I've got some foundation that should work for you."

Will frowns at her. "Why?" he asks.

She looks at him, eyebrows raised. "You're not going over there looking all beat up," she replies. "Christ's sake, Will, you have a _handprint_ on your neck!"

Will blinks. "Oh." He gingerly touches the edges of the bruise, winces when he finds the flesh there tender and warm. "That doesn't matter. He already saw me like this."

Alana's eyes widen, then narrow. "When did this happen?" she asks, in borderline accusation.

"Today, when I was seeing Jack. We ran into each other in the hallway."

Alana seems to absorb this information, her expression neither upset nor pleased. "Did you feel the heat?" she asks him.

Will bites his lower lip, and looks down. "I think so."

"Will, this could be something _incredible_ ," she says gently, taking one of his hands in both of hers and squeezing gently. "And even if he's not your mate, he's a really nice guy. I respect and admire him a lot. You could do worse than him for a friend."

Will sighs, knowing he's not going to win this fight, and he doesn't have the time to pussyfoot about it anyway. "Alright," he says, rolling his eyes when she grins, a thousand watts. Her eyes are even sparkling, who _does_ that? "Come on, matchmaker, make me look pretty."

She lets out a squeal of delight, and hustles him into his bedroom.

 

 

Six fifty-five sees Will crossing the street from his apartment to Hannibal's house, a bottle of wine in hand that he didn't pick out, but Alana insisted was a good choice for a first date. The heat is oppressive, so humid that his hair starts to stick to his neck before he even makes it across the street. The asphalt flings the heat back up at him, surrounding him on all sides. He regrets letting Alana pick out dark slacks, knowing a lighter color would show him greater mercy. She did, however, pick out a lightweight shirt for him to wear, long-sleeved and the same blue as the cloudless sky above his head. The sun won't set for some time, and there is a breeze stirring up the wayward curls on the side of his forehead.

He doesn't see Hannibal through his dining room window, and as he steps up the curb to the other side of the street, he turns around to find Alana grinning at him from behind their patio window. She gives him a thumbs up, and he rolls his eyes, blushing in a way that has nothing to do with the heat.

He approaches the stone wall, the iron gate that sits at the end of a short walkway, which leads to three steps and the dark-painted front door. The garden between the gate and the door is peppered with bushes, covered in small, brilliantly purple yellow and orange flowers. There are butterflies on the bushes, their bright wings fanning the air lazily as they suckle at the delicate buds.

Will stops just inside the gate, his eyes on one particularly large butterfly. It's orange and black in the wings, black-bodied with spots of white on its head and the edges of its wings. It could easily cover the back of Will's hand should it deign to alight on his knuckles.

He watches it, and thinks of the signature of the Monarch. He brands his victims with a similar creature, though there is no color except the red and black of dead, blistered flesh. He swallows, and steps closer to the bush, enthralled by the gentle fan of the butterfly's wings, the soundless glide of its legs and antennae as it navigates the cluster of purple flowers on which is it perched.

_What a gorgeous creature you are._

Will jumps at the sound of the door opening. He looks to it, sees it framing Hannibal as he comes to a stop on the top step, regarding Will coolly. There's a towel in his hands and he's wiping his hands with it, the bright white of the towel contrasting with his tanned skin.

He smiles. "You're right on time."

Will flushes, stepping away from the bush and closing the distance between them. He thrusts the bottle of wine towards Hannibal, holding it by the neck.

Hannibal blinks at him, and takes the bottle, careful not to brush his fingers against Will's and Will ignores the sharp ache in his stomach that feels like disappointment. "This is a good year," he notes, reading the label.

"I can't take credit for it," Will replies. "I'm not much of a wine person myself."

Hannibal's dark eyes meet Will's, his expression curious, and his smile widens enough to show his teeth. "I hope my selection will suffice, then," he says, and steps to one side, gesturing towards the house. "Would you like to come in?"

Will nods, biting his lower lip, and skirts past Hannibal, breathing a sigh of relief when he's washed in cool air. Hannibal follows, closing the door behind them, and Will goes down the hallway. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he hears Hannibal's quiet footsteps behind him. He wonders, absently, if Hannibal feels the same urge to give chase as Will did outside Jack's office that morning.

"The dining room is straight ahead," Hannibal says, and Will startles. His voice is closer than he anticipated. He nods, darting into that room, and comes to a halt once inside. He's seen this room from his porch, but being inside it, he'd never realized how small and intimate a space it was. The lights are dim, casting the room into a soft golden hue. He finds himself gravitating towards the mantle, where the stag horns frame the painting he knows is there but has never seen.

He takes it in. It's _Leda and the Swan_ , a painting he recognizes from one of his mythology courses in college. He knows the story, and smiles, thinking of the legends where gods would trick their conquests into thinking they were soulmates, could conjure that heat and undeniable attraction in a human man or woman so that they could lay with them.

He turns when he hears footsteps approach, and Hannibal smiles at him. He's holding two glasses of dark wine, and sets one down to Will at one of the set places, at the left of the head of the table. Another place setting is to the right.

Equals.

"You have a lovely home," Will says, circling the table and taking his glass once Hannibal lets go of it.

Hannibal smiles. "Thank you," he replies.

"How long have you lived here?" Will asks. He breathes in the wine deeply, finds it sits thickly at the back of his tongue. He takes a sip, humming in appreciation of the heavy thickness of it. Like drinking sweet syrup. It tastes mildly of cherries.

"About thirty years," Hannibal replies. Will swallows and tries not to think about how that timeframe fits to the date of his own birth.

"That's a long time," Will says quietly. Hannibal is standing behind the chair at the head of the table, watching him with an expression that reminds Will of a jungle cat, laid low in the bushes, waiting for the right time to strike. His stomach clenches, and it's not from hunger or pain. He nods. "Where did you live, before that?"

"Florence," Hannibal replies. Will blinks, a flicker of gold passing behind his eyes. "That city was my first great love. Someday, I would like to return to it."

Will swallows another mouthful of wine, steps closer so he's mirroring Hannibal, at his left side. "What brought you here?"

Hannibal takes a drink from his own glass, and smiles. "Florence turned cold," he says. "And I had unfinished business to take care of, here."

Will tilts his head to one side, unable to deny the flush of heat that spreads down his spine at the words. From another room, a timer beeps, and Hannibal straightens, setting his wine glass down. "If you'd like to be seated, I'll bring in dinner," he says.

Will nods, swallowing sharply, and waits for Hannibal to leave the room before he pulls out his chair and takes his seat. "Smells delicious," he calls, as the scents of roasting meat and something sweet and crisp make their way to the dining room.

Hannibal returns with two plates, artfully piled with cuts of what looks like pork, the innards of the meat pale and slightly pink, covered in a rich red sauce, with asparagus and a small mound of glazed, syrupy pineapple chunks on the side. "Pork cutlets with a Cumberland sauce," he declares, setting Will's plate in front of him, then his own. He takes his seat opposite Will and settles into place. "Not usually paired with red wine, but I felt like I could make an exception tonight."

"You don't seem like the kind of man prone to exceptions," Will says.

Hannibal smiles at him, and picks up his fork and knife. Will takes a bite and swallows, gasping in surprise at the explosion of flavor as it settles on his tongue. "Wow, this is amazing," he says, and tries not to make it sound like he's gushing but he's definitely gushing. Unbidden, a flash passes in front of his eyes – a future, both of them well fed in a city of gold, eating heartily at a table such as this. Even with Will's eating issues, he thinks Hannibal would keep him remarkably well-fed.

Hannibal smiles, accepting the praise with equal parts pride and humility. "I'm pleased you like it," he replies. "Cooking is a passion of mine. I've been doing it since I was a youth."

Will nods. Even though his cheek hurts and his lip stings when he chews and swallows, he finds himself digging in eagerly to the rest of the meal. "Is this what you do for a living?" he asks. After all, he knows Hannibal was Alana's mentor, but that was many years ago, and when one has the potential for immortality, a single career often doesn't extend more than a decade at a time. Immortals grow bored easily – or at least, the few Will has met who are old enough to be classified as such.

Hannibal shakes his head. "I used to be a surgeon," he says, taking another bite of food and washing it down with wine. "Now I have my own psychiatric practice."

"From body to mind," Will murmurs. Hannibal's eyes flash to him, dark and pleased, and he nods. "Do you find one of them more interesting than the other?"

"I suppose the way the world works has shaped my view of such things," Hannibal replies mildly. "When one's body could be taken away at any time, the mind is all that remains. Analyzing it and learning it is the closest we can come to dissecting the nature of the soul."

Will sighs, stretching his legs out in front of him. His shoe brushes Hannibal's and he jerks his leg back, blushing heavily and sitting up straight, tucking his feet under his chair. Hannibal, to his credit, doesn't react. "So you believe in soulmates."

"There is overwhelming evidence to their existence, yes," Hannibal replies. "And I have seen the psychological effects on the brain and the body before and after someone has mated. I cannot possibly say they do not exist."

Will nods, eyeing Hannibal for another moment. His hands feel warm, eager to reach out and touch, to know for certain. He looks down at his plate and slices off another bite of pork, piles a piece of pineapple on top and eats it. The food really is delicious, the natural sweetness of the pineapple complimenting the salty, savory taste of the meat and the tart sauce. It's the best meal he can ever remember having and his stomach isn't even hurting when he eats the sweet food as it normally does.

The silence stretches on. It's loaded, but comfortable. Hannibal has to be feeling the same heat Will is, must feel a similar desire to reach out and touch, and know for sure. Curiosity is a blight for all men, it's what makes them inventors and spurns them to war – for the delight in seeing what will happen.

"How is the novel coming?" Hannibal asks after another moment of companionable silence.

Will huffs, rubbing his hand across the good side of his jaw. "It's not," he replies, somewhat sullenly. "I find myself lacking inspiration."

Hannibal smiles. "Are there not enough serial killers in the world to draw your muse's attention?"

Will shrugs one shoulder, takes another drink of wine. "I also try to avoid writing about killers that haven't been caught." Hannibal seems surprised by this, and Will doesn't want to explain why. So; "I wanted to write about the Monarch," he says. Hannibal looks at him, eyebrows raised. "But I don't know enough about him yet."

"Yet?" Hannibal repeats.

Will nods. He presses his lips together and looks down at his plate again. "How do you know Jack?"

"Agent Crawford and I met at a pathology conference many years ago. Since then we have remained steadfast acquaintances." Hannibal pauses, as though debating whether to speak further; "He called me asking for an opinion on the latest Monarch kill."

Will looks up, frowning. "Is that so?"

Hannibal nods. "I've consulted for him before," he says mildly. "Jack seems to think that the Monarch is trying to get someone's attention." He pauses, and adds with a small ghost of a smile; "A theory I believe you planted in his head, if I'm not mistaken."

Will swallows, blushing, and washes down his mouthful with another drink of thick wine. "Well, yes," he admits, unable to hold Hannibal's eyes.

"It's a fine theory," Hannibal says mildly. "I'm curious as to what brought you to that, if you're willing to discuss your process with me."

Will bites his lip, wincing at the sting. Hannibal's voice has gotten lower, almost flirtatious. He shifts in his seat and tries to cover up his shaking hands by wiping them on the cloth napkin, settled over his thigh.

"The Monarch has always possessed a certain ardency," he says, slowly, testing the words out before he gives them voice. He meets Hannibal's eyes, finds him watching Will raptly, as though Will's conversation is the only thing he finds interesting. It settles something in Will, that same thing that purred and arched under Hannibal's attention, like there's a creature in his chest desperately begging to be seen. "He's passionate. He wants to be seen, and known, by whoever it is he's killing for."

"You believe he's killing to garner someone's affection?" Hannibal asks, smiling.

Will huffs. "It sounds crazy when you put it like that."

"On the contrary, people have done far more to achieve far less," Hannibal replies, straightening in his seat and taking his wine glass in hand. He swirls it around the bowl, takes a deep breath of it, and swallows a mouthful. "I think it's a sound theory. But the question is; whose attention is he trying to get? And for what purpose?"

"Love," Will replies, without thinking. The answer comes to him suddenly, like the flashes of heat he gets whenever he meets Hannibal's eyes.

"Love," Hannibal repeats, considering.

Will nods, certainty sliding into place when he hears Hannibal's voice say the word. There's a certain sense of rightness to it, clarity colored in gold.

But. He frowns. If that is the case, if the Monarch is doing what he's doing out of some perverted sense of love, why is the Ripper involved at all? Surely they cannot be enamored by the same person. And it's not a rivalry, each of them trying to outdo the other.

He blinks, and sighs in frustration. When he looks up again, he finds Hannibal watching him, expression carefully neutral but eyes bright. Will blushes. "Sorry," he says, muttering the word down at his meal. "Lost my train of thought."

"The trials of having a great imagination," Hannibal replies quietly, and he says it like he understands. Will can't help thinking, knowing Hannibal's past as a surgeon, that he might be one of the first people Will has met with the kind of imagination to stomach the things he's seen. The things he thinks about in the dark.

A flash of color catches his eye, and he turns his head and looks out of the front window, spotting the flitting orange and blue wings of the butterflies outside. He smiles despite himself. "Did you plant your garden yourself?" he asks. In this part of the neighborhood he wouldn't put it past Hannibal to hire people to tend to his yard.

Hannibal nods, taking a sip of wine. "I like butterflies," he replies softly, joining Will in gazing out the window. "The process of their creation, their second evolution, their migration patterns. I find all of it fascinating."

Will nods.

"There is also a Japanese superstition that says if a butterfly enters your guest room and perches behind the bamboo screen, the person whom you most love is coming to see you."

Will blinks, and looks back at Hannibal, who hasn't moved. His eyes are far away, fixed on the butterflies outside but not seeing them. He looks contemplative again, as he has so many nights Will has watched him from his balcony.

His fingers curl and settle in his lap, his brain filled with static and his mouth suddenly too dry. "Is that why you planted so many?" he whispers. Hannibal's gaze slides to him, almost absently except for the sharpness that suddenly appears there when his eyes meet Will's. "Wishful thinking?"

Hannibal smiles, genteel. "You refer to my physical age."

"I can't imagine losing my mate," Will says, rasping the words. "I think that's the one pain I can't imagine."

"It is indescribable," Hannibal replies softly, setting his wine glass down. "But I think worse than the loss, is the waiting. It forces a man to have the utmost patience – a trait I claimed to have, but never learned the true meaning of until I lost him."

"In Florence?" Will whispers.

"Yes."

"How?" He sits forward, and doesn't think any conversation has held his attention this much before. The tilt of Hannibal's mouth bears great sorrow, but his eyes remain sharp, fixed on Will with that hunting-cat focus. Will wants him to lunge. He wants to hold his hand out, brush their fingers together. Wants to know if the heat in his skin will be echoed in Hannibal's, if they might burn together and feast to their hearts' content on each other's souls.

And Will knows, absently, that this is a very rude question to ask. He is asking Hannibal to bare his most personal pain, and yet he hopes Hannibal can forgive him.

Hannibal regards him, and breathes in deeply through his nose, lets out the breath slowly. Will has never had to see such pain before, but he sees it now. Pain, hope, a concoction headier and thicker than the wine.

"I apologize," he finally says, and shows the edges of his teeth, blinking away the sorrow. "It seems I'm not ready to tell that story, yet."

"That's alright," Will says. He sits back, pulls his elbows from the table, the fluttering in his stomach abruptly turning cold like frost covering the wings of the butterflies there. He wants to say something else, wants to stand and go to Hannibal, cup his face and wipe the sorrow from his eyes, from the corners of his mouth. Wants to say, 'I'm here, I'm here, I'm sorry I kept you waiting'.

But he doesn't. He takes a drink of wine to stop himself speaking at all.

Hannibal shifts, abruptly, and the tense mood melts like snow in spring. "Do you consult for the FBI often?" he asks.

Will shakes his head. "I used to," he replies. "But then I stopped. But the Monarch, and the Ripper…" He hesitates, licks his lips, rubs his thumb against the corner of his mouth.

"The Ripper, too?" Hannibal asks, eyebrows rising.

Will nods. "I've been consulting since they surfaced," he replies. "I feel like…" He stops again, huffs a self-deprecating laugh. "It's going to sound crazy."

"Try me," Hannibal murmurs. The same voice therapists use; coaxing, gentle. And it makes Will want to confess.

"I feel like they're mine," Will says after another moment, another mouthful of liquid courage to loosen his tongue. Hannibal's expression doesn't change, but his eyes brighten with something like amusement. "When I read their crime scenes, I suppose it's…like you, watching butterflies. I want to study them. I want to understand them."

"A mighty feat, if you succeed," Hannibal murmurs. He nods to Will's throat. "So I take it you don't suffer these injuries as a result of field work."

Will blushes, touching his neck absently, and shakes his head. "No," he replies. "I make good money writing, but I have to write to do it. I, ah, subsidize my income by fighting."

Hannibal blinks at him, and then he smiles. Will doesn't know what to make of that. "It's good that you know how to defend yourself," he murmurs. Will blinks at him, and frowns, for his reaction is not the normal one he has come to expect. He rubs over his bruised jaw again, tries to laugh off the statement, but it gets stuck in his throat and comes out more as a choked-off exhale than anything else.

They finish their meal and Hannibal stands to clear the plates. Will wants to follow him when he goes into the kitchen, wants to reach out to him and touch him and know, for certain, but he stays his hand and forces himself to remain still. Hannibal returns with the wine decanter, fills their glasses, and sits again, this time at the head of the table so that they're closer. Will really could reach out and touch him now, if he wanted to.

"I hope to take advantage of your hospitality again soon," he says, taking a drink of wine. "I can't remember the last time I had such good food."

"You are always welcome here," Hannibal says, without falsehood – openly.

"Careful," Will teases. The wine is hitting him now, settling heavy in his stomach and the base of his skull. "You might never be rid of me."

Hannibal smiles, like the idea causes him the greatest pleasure. "I find your company delightful," he says softly. Will's eyes fall to his free hand, which rests loosely on the arm of his chair. Within touching distance. Hannibal's hands are large, and look strong. Will swallows, flushing despite himself. He tries to blame it on the alcohol and knows, if anyone were to hear it, they'd call him a liar. "I would very much like to get to know you better, in this life."

 _In this life_.

Because he already knew Will in a previous one.

Will swallows, his chest suddenly tight. The sentiment he'd shared with Alana rears its ugly head – he cannot possibly live up to the expectations of Hannibal's previous mate. He doesn't know that person, he doesn't know what he was or if he's any different, or exactly the same, but Hannibal knows. Hannibal has expectations.

He turns his gaze away, and looks towards the butterflies. The sky is dark outside. Time stands still in the place where souls and mates meet and bond.

But; "I'd like that too," he replies, because he cannot lie. Hannibal conjures frightful honesty in him. He finishes his glass and sets it down. "I should probably go. Alana has to be up early, and I promised her I'd come with her to help her with notes."

Hannibal nods. If he feels any disappointment at having Will cut the evening short, he hides it. "Let me walk you out," he says, and Will nods, and stands. He goes to the door, and Hannibal follows, close enough that the hairs on the back of Will's neck stand up. He turns once he's at the door, looks up to meet the other man's dark eyes.

He's standing so close.

Will could just…

He clears his throat. "Thank you again for dinner," he murmurs.

"It was my pleasure, Will," Hannibal replies. He regards Will for another moment, then; "I'd like to show you something, if I may."

Will nods, curious when Hannibal turns away and goes back into the dining room, and then disappears from sight. He waits, weight shifting nervously from foot to foot, and Hannibal returns with a folder in hand, the kind used for case files. Will looks at it curiously, and takes it when Hannibal hands it to him.

"Some parts are in Italian, but most of it's in English."

"What is it?" Will asks, opening the file. There are photographs clipped to the corner, sheets of a police report filled in a neat, tilted script. Will catches a flash of dark blood before he closes the folder and lifts his eyes to meet Hannibal's again.

Hannibal smiles. "A cold case," he murmurs. "From Florence."

Will blinks at him. "Is this…?"

Hannibal nods. "They never caught the man who did it," he says quietly. He looks down at the folder, that far away look coming to his face again, before he blinks, and it's gone. "Perhaps it will pique your muse's curiosity."

Will swallows, and nods. "Thank you," he replies.

Hannibal smiles, and opens the door for him. "Good luck."

Will nods, ducking his head and forcing himself to walk out of the door, past the butterfly bushes, and out into the street. For if he stays, he might not leave again. He goes to his apartment and forces himself not to look out of the patio window.

Alana emerges from her bedroom, hair in disarray and rubbing at her eyes. "What's that?" she asks, nodding to the folder in Will's hands.

Will swallows, and feels the truth in the words as he says them; "Hannibal's mate's murder," he replies. "My murder file."

Alana blinks at him, her eyes widening. "Are you…serious?" she asks, stepping closer. Winston is rubbing around her legs, as he normally sleeps in her room and keeps guard when Will isn't home.

Will nods, looking down at the file. His hands are shaking, and burning, and he has the irrational fear that the delicate pages may burst into flames if he holds them too tightly. "Yeah," he breathes. "They never caught the guy who did it, apparently. That's what he told me, when he gave it to me."

"Why would he do that?" Alana asks, frowning.

"I think…" Will swallows, bites his tongue, and shakes his head. "I think he wants me to solve it."

"And are you going to?"

"Well, I have to try, right?" He doesn't look at her. He feels strangely energized, buzzing from the wine and the conversation and the heat, oh, the heat. "I have to try." _Yes, yes, you have to try_. "I have to."

"Will." Alana's voice is low, worried. She's frowning still when he looks at her.

He shakes his head and takes his file to the couch, sitting down and opening it on his lap. Winston jumps up to join him, burying his muzzle under Will's thigh. Alana sighs, and goes back to bed, knowing better than to argue with Will when he gets an idea in his head.

Will's hands tremble as he opens it. This could explain so much. If his previous death was violent, maybe that's why he has such terrible nightmares. Maybe this murder he's seeing, over and over again, is not just a dream, a manifestation of the dark things that follow him home, but a memory, buried in that space between life and death where reincarnates live.

Maybe.

There's only one way to find out.

 

 

"You are mine."

There's a creature at Will's back, big black hands settled over his shoulders. Will's stomach is in knots, there's blood in his mouth, welling up and falling from behind his teeth onto the floor between his knees. He clutches at his stomach, tears of reflexive pain in his eyes as he heaves. His chest is a mess of fresh cuts, his hands covered in his own blood, and he kneels before the altar of a would-be god and screams for the Devil.

A man kneels in front of him. His face is covered in the orange and black pattern of a Monarch butterfly, but Will cannot make out any features. He grins at Will, and then stands, and the hands from his shoulders leave him. Will falls onto his side, growling around the pain in his stomach, and opens his eyes to see a new creature standing where he was knelt. The thing is all black, elongated arms and legs covered in a thick crust of darkness, eyes a burning golden color. From its head sprouts giant, arching horns.

The Monarch growls at the creature. "He's mine," he tells it. The creature doesn't answer. Will tries to push himself to his feet – he feels the compulsion to get between these two monsters, to stand as the humanity in the middle ground. But his knees collapse from under him and all he can do is crawl.

"He's mine," the Monarch snarls, baring savage teeth like that of a dog, and looks to Will.

"Who are you talking about?" Will demands.

The Monarch smiles, and kneels down, cups his face and kisses him harshly. Will growls, parts his jaws, lets the man's tongue enter his mouth and then bites down, severs it with teeth too sharp.

Biting through flesh is so much easier than a finger.

He spits out the tongue, snarls when the man shrieks and staggers back. Will bares his teeth, grins wide and heaves another shuddering breath. "Now we match," he hisses, licking the mix of his own blood and that of the Monarch from his mouth.

The demon laughs. It's a soft, gentle noise, like the roar before the shockwave. Will feels its touch on his shoulder, and it settles him. It feels familiar, and comforting.

The Monarch's blood stands out, a stark red river that mixes with Will's own. Joint threads of destiny, of fate. Will braces himself, pushes himself to his feet. He wants to look around, take in his surroundings, find an exit and take the demon with him. But there's no way out. The Monarch snarls at him, rushes him, clawed, fanged, big as a beast, and Will is suddenly thrown to one side and the Monarch spears the demon through the chest instead, gutting it from neck to navel.

Will screams, for he feels the pain like his own. Indescribable. He falls to his stomach, sweating and shaking, hands covered in blood. Then, he hears a cracking noise, like a jaw unhinged, and when he looks up, the demon has opened its mouth wide and has the Monarch's head in its hands. Its teeth are white and shining and it bites down on the Monarch's jaw, rips it clean off, and from the wound sprouts a flurry of butterflies.

Will whimpers, covering his face as they fly to him and land on his back. Each one has the weight of a thousand years behind it, sorrow and longing mixed with something so heavy that he might sink into the ground, through it, and disappear.

The hand in his hair is gentle, and he receives another kiss, this time on the forehead. He's soaked in sweat, trembling, and lifts his head to meet the demon's golden eyes.

The creature can't talk, but it doesn't matter. His voice is gentle, and sounds like Hannibal's.

"It'll be alright. I'm here."

"I want to live," Will whispers, even as the colors in the edges of his vision fade – a quiet admission that feels foreign on his tongue, yet rings with truth, something long-buried stirring in its sleep. He's afraid, and shaking.

The demon blinks at him, head tilted, and leans in, rests their foreheads together. With one blood-slick hand, Will cups its face, and closes his eyes.

"You will live, my love," the demon says. "This is not the end."

Tears are hot on his face, and he opens his eyes to feel them fall. "Will you wait for me?"

"Until the end of time," the demon murmurs. It cups Will's face with the utmost gentleness, and Will tastes blood in his mouth, his body trembling and hacking up another thick wad of bloody saliva. A kiss falls to his mouth, gentle and warm, and Will can't keep his eyes open any longer. "Relax. Don't fight it. You won't feel any pain."

Will swallows, and nods, understanding that this is not, in fact, the end. What comes next is the killing blow.

The demon rolls him onto his back, its claws flexed and settling over his heart. Will wants to give his heart over, open himself completely. "Take it," he breathes, stuttering the word. "Eat."

The demon smiles, showing crooked teeth, and rips Will's chest open. Will doesn't watch.

 

 

"Will, are you listening to me?"

Will startles, the car jerking just a little to the right in the way people do when they haven't explicitly been paying attention, but come back to it and focus a little too suddenly. Alana looks at him, eyes wide, and Will gives her a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he murmurs, rubbing his hand through his hair. "What?"

She rolls her eyes. "I was telling you about the matches I've been getting," she says. "I narrowed it down to Baltimore, or nearby. Like thirty miles."

"That's great," Will says, and although he is happy for her, his tone is flat and unenthused. He's exhausted, very suddenly, like the trance was the only thing keeping him going and any active thought is draining beyond measure.

She huffs. "How much sleep did you get last night?"

"I'm honestly not sure I slept at all," Will replies. The dreams he'd had felt too real to be called dreams, and he doesn't remember getting up from the couch. In fact, when dawn was cresting the horizon and coloring it pink, he had come back to himself in the same clothes, sitting in the same spot, Winston dozing lightly beside him.

Alana is quiet for a moment. Then; "Did you feel anything?"

And, well, how can Will possibly answer that? Only to say yes, _yes_ , he's been feeling a great many things in the past forty-eight hours and none of them have been wholly unpleasant. His stomach hasn't bothered him at all since he ate at Hannibal's table. He hasn't coughed up any blood or had any bouts of dizziness.

Perhaps Alana was right; being around one's soulmate _is_ healing.

"Will?" Alana presses, reminding Will that he didn't answer.

"I…don't know what I felt," Will replies. "It's weird, looking at a crime scene like that. I mean, it was _me_. I should feel…something. But I don't. It's just another body. Another killer no one caught. It's not special."

"It was special to Hannibal," Alana says gently. "Your death."

And, somehow, 'special' seems like the right word.

Will sighs and pulls up outside of the university building. "You go ahead, I'll park and catch up," he says, eyeing the clouds and the rows of already-filled spaces. He won't ask her to walk through that if it starts to rain. She nods, leaning across the console to kiss him on the cheek, and gets out of the car, hurrying to the building before the clouds break. By the time Will finds a spot halfway back through the large lot, heavy, fat drops of rain have already started to come down.

He sighs, gets out of the car, and grabs his messenger bag, holding it above his head as he hurries to the building. Once inside he slings it over his shoulder and lets the quiet thrum of the university halls wash over him. He has always liked it in here – the building feels old, immortalized and full of curious minds, intimate knowledge and instruction. He wonders, absently, if his previous self felt similar draws to such places.

"Will."

Will's body freezes, and flushes warmly as he hears the familiar voice over his shoulder. He turns, melting strangely at the sight of Hannibal approaching him from the end of the hall, out of another classroom. His shoulders are lax, his stomach fluttering in wild anticipation, and he's smiling wide enough that his cheek throbs.

"Hi," he murmurs, and clears his throat, for his voice feels too soft and intimate for such a public place. "Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal's eyes flash with amusement, and he smiles, halting a respectful distance away. Will wants to slide close, wants to touch his fingers to Hannibal's face, wants to experience the way his spine will tremble with Hannibal's voice is in his ear.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"You mentioned Alana giving a lecture, and I wanted to sit in and see what she's been up to. The family dynamic within therapy is one I have yet to explore."

"You prefer equal ground," Will says, and blinks. Where did that come from?

But Hannibal's smile widens.

Will flushes, ducking his gaze. He wishes he'd brought his glasses with him so that he'd have something to fidget with. "I -."

His phone rings, conjuring feelings equal parts relief and frustration, and he gives an apologetic look before fishing through his coat to answer it. It's Jack. "Yeah, Jack?" he asks. Hannibal straightens, face smoothing out in polite interest. Will finds it hard to meet his eyes and concentrate on Jack's voice at the same time.

"There's been another murder," Jack says. "You need to get here immediately."

Will swallows. "The Monarch?" he asks, voice low.

"Looks like it," Jack replies. "I'll text you the address."

Will nods, and hangs up the phone. His phone chimes and buzzes as Jack texts him the location of the crime scene. "I'm sorry, I have to go," he murmurs. "Will you tell Alana that Jack called me? And apologize for me?"

"Of course," Hannibal replies amicably, though his smile is mischievous. "If." He pauses, and Will lifts his chin, "You agree to join me for dinner again. Tomorrow night."

Will laughs, the fluttering warmth in his chest flaring with surprising strength. "I suppose I must agree," he replies, and the smile they share is warm and anticipatory, like two children waiting for their friend to fall into a prank. "I'll see you later. Seven again?"

"Yes," Hannibal replies, and nods. Will nods back, and skirts around him in the hallway, past Alana's lecture room, and back out into the rain.

 

 

 

Two men again. Caucasian, ageless. Time of death: midnight the night before. Cause of death: exsanguination for one.

Drowning, for the other.

Will has seen this before.

Not like an echo, not like he's remembering a dream or trying to recall the detail of a movie. He has seen this image, down to the last detail, down to the registered color of the drowned man's eyes. Down to the curl of his faded smile, the splay of his arms, the curve of his legs.

His stomach turns cold as he walks across the concrete. They're in a warehouse, an abandoned lot in the built-up parts of Baltimore. Beverly, Brian, and Jimmy are there, but clear back when Will approaches like the Red Sea for Moses.

"Kinda fucked up, this one," Jimmy mutters.

"Will," Jack says.

Will winces, and holds up a hand. "Please," he says, voice hoarse. "Just let me look."

Jack nods, stepping back. Jimmy hands him a pair of latex gloves and Will pulls them on and comes to a stop before the two men.

He kneels down, at eye level with the crouching man. His hair is still wet, or looks that way, at least. He's crouched between the other man's legs, and looks almost predatory from where he is. His eyes have been sewn open like the last victim's, the corners of his mouth pulled up in a smile.

A mockery. Will thinks of the Monarch, missing his lower jaw, and shivers.

The man on the floor is on his back, his arms raised up and pinned above his head. He's holding the drowned man's heart in his hands, like he's playing a game of keep away with it. His eyes are closed, expression serene. Resigned.

Will has _seen this before_.

He reaches out, fingers shaking, and runs his palm down the inside of the heartless man's arm, follows the strong musculature of it, touches the other man's thigh and slides inward in an intimate touch. The air tastes like blood and seawater.

"I want him," he whispers. "I want him and you got in the way."

"His heart is _mine_ ," he says, and his voice is harsher, rougher. "You have to go through me."

Will has _seen this before_.

He lets go of the prone man's thigh, wants to lick his fingers and see if he tastes sweat.

He hears music. Soft violins. The paralyzing purr of a tiger about to lunge.

He trembles, and when he sits back, his eyes are wet.

There is a brand on the kneeling man's back, just like the Monarch to leave. Will shoves himself to his feet, tears off the gloves and throws them away.

"Will?"

"I -. Just give me a minute," Will says, and flees from the warehouse. He can hear Jack in hot pursuit, and Beverly murmuring worriedly to Jimmy and Brian. He doesn't care. He runs out into the rain, winces when the cold air hits his face and the water beats down on his sore cheeks and neck. It feels cleansing, in the way iron wool peels back skin and leaves fresh, bloody flesh anew.

A shadow falls across his vision, Will turns his head and sees a demon in the shadows. Its eyes, bright and glowing like the headlights of a car, stare at him unblinkingly.

It holds its hand out to him. Will wants to go.

"Will!"

The demon disappears, and in its place stands Jack. Will flinches, swallowing, and turns his face away.

"What did you see?"

Will wipes at his face, tries to blink away the tears, but he can't. They're as brands, burning hot on his cheeks in contrast with the cold rain. Fire, ice, mixing together to form mist. If he could just _see_.

"What do you know about Monarch butterflies, Jack?" he whispers.

Jack frowns at him. "They're the big orange ones, right? Mass migrators."

Will nods. "Throughout the year, they travel from Mexico, to Canada, and back again. But it takes several generations to get from one place to another. They have a…a superconscious. Each inherited generation has the knowledge of the one before it."

"Okay," Jack murmurs. Impatient.

"There was a murder, thirty years ago," Will whispers. "In Italy. A man was killed."

Jack is silent, but Will can feel his eyes on the back of Will's neck. He turns, and meets Jack's gaze. "It was me," he says. "It was my previous life, before this one. It's why the Monarch is back. He knows me."

"Will, help me out here," Jack says. The rain has soaked through his clothes, but he doesn't seem to notice, or care. He stands unflinching, a monument to all things right and just. "How can you be sure? What did you see?"

"I've seen this murder before, Jack," Will says. "Down to the last detail. The Monarch is…injured. He blames me for what happened. He killed me, because -."

_You have to go through me to get to him._

_You'll take my heart, whether you want it or not._

Will freezes, his eyes wide. "I have to go," he says.

"Will, wait!" Jack reaches for him, grabs him by the shoulder as he tries to pass and reels him to a halt like a horse caught on its bridle. Will growls, bares his teeth, champs at the bit sitting behind his molars. "Just wait a second. You're telling me you're on this killer's radar, that he killed your previous self. That's serious."

"I can handle myself," Will says, jerking his shoulder free.

He thinks back, to his first fight. The eager, jittery energy that came before he threw his first punch. The high of his first victory, the solid satisfaction of knowing that he had bested another man. His first fight, he hadn't won, but he is determined, and vicious, and will protect what he loves.

He has to protect what he loves.

"Why would he kill you, then?" Jack says, relenting somewhat. His eyes are on the bruises on Will's face and neck, like he's coming to the same conclusion Will is – that he chooses to fight, not for the glory, not for the money, but because he has to. He gestures back to the innards of the building. "What does he gain, from doing this?"

"He wants me to know he's here," Will says. "He's coming. I have to go."

"Go and do what?" Jack demands.

Will bares his teeth, his eyes sharp, and he turns away. "I have to protect my mate."

 

 

It makes sense, he thinks to himself as he careens wildly off of the exit ramp, merging into traffic to a chorus of blaring horns and flashing bright lights. The Monarch wanted Hannibal, but Will was in the way. He would have forced himself on his mate, but Hannibal and Will had found each other, had bonded. The only thing that could have separated them was death.

Will was the competition. Will is the rival. What this has to do with the Ripper, Will doesn't know yet, but he cannot wait around and find out.

He has to get to Hannibal.

He drives down the row of cars between his apartment building and Hannibal's home, relieved beyond measure to see that the Bentley is there. He parks next to it, throws himself out of the car, and runs to Hannibal's front door. The butterflies are not there, but hidden, seeking shelter from the rain.

He knocks, jittery and off-kilter like he'd felt before his first fight. The moments between his knuckles hitting the wood and the door opening stretch on for eternity.

But Hannibal answers. He blinks at Will's disheveled, soaked state. He's dressed comfortably, in black suit pants and a red sweater that looks soft to the touch, his hair flat against his face like he's just come out of the shower.

"Will?" he says warmly.

"Are you alone?" Will asks.

Hannibal blinks at him, presses his lips together, and says, "Yes." Yes, because he is alone. He's been alone for far too long.

Will swallows, steels himself, and holds out his hand. "Not anymore."

Hannibal's eyes fall to his outstretched hand, widen and brighten with something too fierce and certain to be hope, too affectionate to be surprise. His hand slides down from where it had come to rest on the frame of the door. His fingers curl and reach for Will, and Will trembles, freezing cold on the surface but burning hot in the inside.

He stops, their fingers mere inches from grazing. He meets Will's eyes.

Will manages a smile. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

Hannibal breathes out, and gently rests his palm against Will's. His fingers curl around Will's wrist, the meat of his thumb settling against Will's, and Will gasps, heat flaring up in him from where their hands touch. It runs up his arm like a drug, sets off a burst of amber and gold behind his eyes.

Hannibal smiles, the years on his face melting away in the wake of such utter joy. Will could easily look at him like this for the rest of his life. His heart stutters, steadies, and his shoulders roll as the weight of their bond settles over him, warm and heady like the burn of whiskey, like a heavy cloak, like the first fire of winter, blazing bright.

"Please," Hannibal whispers, and his fingers tighten around Will's wrist. "Come in."

Will nods, and steps into Hannibal's home, lets the warmth within envelop him and make him shiver. He presses close to Hannibal, uncaring for the slick of rain on his clothes, and touches his face like he's thought about doing so often in the short time they've known each other.

But they have known each other far longer. The creature in Will's chest purrs, arching and showing its belly to its mate. His fingers alight gently on Hannibal's jaw, as delicate as a butterfly upon a flower. Hannibal's eyes close, and he turns his face into Will's hand, breathing in deeply.

Hannibal's free hand settles on Will's flank, tightens, turns them so Will's shoulders meet the wooden paneling on the wall. He presses close and Will's lungs tremble, his stomach clenches up with something that feels like hunger but it's more urgent, hotter, and when their foreheads touch, Will's eyes burn.

"I'm never leaving again," he swears. Hannibal needs to hear it, and Will needs to say it. He lets go of Hannibal's jaw, slides his hand down his tensed shoulders, feels them roll and tremble under his touch. Their noses brush and Will's lips part, eager.

When Hannibal kisses him, it fills him like no meal ever could. Will aches for it, lets the back of his head rest on the wall as Hannibal leans into him, fills the space between Will's legs and his lungs and he breathes in deep, the scent of Hannibal's shampoo, his lemongrass bodywash, the softer scent of his clean sweater. His fingers curl, tug, desperate, and he kisses Hannibal back until his seizing lungs beg for air.

Hannibal pulls back, though he cannot go far. Will doesn't think either of them could survive separation now. The air feels too rough on his skin when not tempered with Hannibal's warmth.

"I knew I would find you again," Hannibal breathes. Will bites his lower lip, trembling at the pleased heat in his mate's dark eyes.

"I'm here," Will replies, speaks the words he wanted to say the night before into the quiet air. He lets go of Hannibal's hand, rests his fingers instead against the thrum of his pulse, and leans in for another kiss that Hannibal eagerly grants him, like he's dying of thirst and can only drink the water from Will's mouth.

He wants to say more. Wants to promise Hannibal that he will be safe, that Will can protect him. That he _will_ protect him, and destroy the Monarch before he can get to either of them again. He wants to say it all, but Hannibal's love, his heat, demand his attention sooner.

Hannibal pulls back, and Will whines, curling both hands in Hannibal's sweater and yanking him close again. "No," he demands, pressing his forehead against Hannibal's harsh enough to pinken their skin. "No. I need to touch you."

Hannibal smiles. "You were always wild," he murmurs, affectionate and fond.

Will bares his teeth, grinning. He does feel wild, and fierce, and powerful in Hannibal's arms. "You'll have to forgive me," he says. "I'm being rude."

"I like you rude," Hannibal replies coolly. He takes both of Will's hands in his own, kisses his bruised knuckles. "I would love you in any way you'll let me."

Will lets out a shaky breath. It sounds like a growl. "Love me upstairs," he says.

Hannibal eyes flash, his fingers tighten, and he nods.

 

 

Will has studied testimonials and cases detailing what it feels like to finally be in the presence of one's mate. The heat, of course, is universal. The need, depending on the sexuality of the person – after all, a soul mate doesn't necessarily mean a bedfellow – that follows after. The bone-deep satisfaction of being around your mate, of touching them, or sharing space with them.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Between the downstairs hall and Hannibal's bedroom, Will sheds his jacket and his shoes, leaves them askew in the threshold of the bedroom. Hannibal's red sweater follows soon after, discarded in a rumpled heap over the back of a chair that's placed in a miniature sitting area at the foot of his bed. Will barely registers the scenery; the swirl of black and white wood on the floor, the teal walls with black-framed pieces of art, the blue mesh of Hannibal's sheets that make Will reminisce about his own eyes and butterfly wings.

His attention is hyper-focused on Hannibal. Hannibal, whose breathing is heavy on Will's neck, whose hands are wide and strong on Will's flanks and burn him through his shirt.

Will barely feels like his skin can contain him. Rather, he's trapped within his clothes, which suddenly feel too tight, the rain making his skin pink and raw. He kisses Hannibal breathlessly, shoving all his weight against Hannibal's chest until Hannibal's legs hit the bed and they fall onto it. Will growls, prowling over him, his fingers digging under Hannibal's white t-shirt and shoving it upwards.

He pulls Hannibal's shirt over his head and throws it to one side, cups Hannibal's head and kisses him fiercely as Hannibal's fingers work at the buttons of Will's shirt. Once they're undone, Will shrugs the garment off, throwing it to the floor with a heavy thud. He turns his head, deepens the kiss when Hannibal's lips part, needing air. Will can taste green tea on his tongue, sweet pineapple he assumes is leftovers from their meal last night. He wants to devour Hannibal whole.

Will settles in Hannibal's lap, his soaked slacks leaving a wet spot under his knees and across Hannibal's thighs. He pulls back, breathing heavily through parted jaws, rakes his eyes greedily over Hannibal's bared chest. He drags his nails down, through the thick patch of hair on his chest that one simply doesn't have with an ageless body. Hannibal is thick, but lean, his shoulders and arms strong when he rears up and wraps his arms around Will's waist.

Will shivers, bites Hannibal's lower lip and kisses him harshly. The heat in his chest is indescribable, all-consuming. He feels like he's going to burst into flames. "Hannibal," he breathes, and Hannibal shivers, like the sound of his name could sustain him alone for the next thousand years.

Will pushes back, rolls his shoulders as he eyes Hannibal, sitting prone in the center of his bed. Bared like this, wild-eyed, he looks just as proud and regal as when Will first saw him. But flayed to the bone as well, vulnerable and open.

 _Offer me your heart_.

Will wants to say it. He lunges, pins Hannibal down and kisses him fiercely, growls when Hannibal's nails rake down his back.

"I need you," he breathes. "I need to feel you."

"I'm here," Hannibal replies. He sounds steady and shaken all at once. Will hopes he's burning just as brightly. They might burn together, collide and go supernova. _God_ , how he wants that.

Will growls, and turns his attention to Hannibal's suit pants. The button and zip are undone easily, and he yanks the damp clothes down to Hannibal's knees, then off, leaving him in black briefs. He pushes himself to the edge of the bed and stands. He undoes his belt, yanks it free, and shoves his too-loose slacks and underwear down to his feet, kicking them off.

Hannibal's eyes are ravenous on him, he parts his lips and licks them when his eyes rake down Will's chest, his stomach where the bruises are black from his fight with Cordell, and spread out from his sternum to his hips. Hannibal's lip twitches, something angry and hot in his eyes, and Will grins at him, off-kilter.

"Don't like seeing another man's marks on me?" he says, and doesn't know where the taunt comes from, only that it feels right to say it.

Hannibal's eyes snap to his, and he rolls to his knees and prowls to Will, takes him by the hair and kisses him. "Bruises fade," he replies, low and rough against Will's mouth. Will smiles, shows his teeth, and Hannibal hauls him back onto the bed, onto his back, and prowls into place between his knees.

Will arches up, clawing at Hannibal's shoulders. Naked as he is, he feels the blistering heat of Hannibal's skin against every part of him, delights in the ungentle grip of Hannibal's hands on his flanks. He knows the bruises are there, but he doesn't soften his touch, doesn't yield ground that feels so hard-won. Will kisses him, bites his jaw, and Hannibal snarls.

"Still fierce as ever," he purrs, proud and fine. Will sits up, bares his neck so Hannibal can cover him, kiss his throat and settle heavily in Will's lap. Like every part of them must be touching every part of the other. Will's hands don't feel steady unless he's touching Hannibal, raking his nails across the other man's back. He wants to expose Hannibal's spine, taste his heart, devour him from the inside out.

He growls, and rolls them to the edge of the bed. "Will you have me?" he asks, sucking the words to Hannibal's collarbone.

"Yes," Hannibal replies, fist in his hair, fist on his back. Claws extended. "I will accept all of you."

"I will take all of you," Will whispers, delighted when Hannibal shivers. Superconscious drives his tongue, makes him lick the salt of Hannibal's sweat from his neck, slicks his hands up Hannibal's flanks. He rears up, and Hannibal jerks his chin towards the bedside table.

Will reaches for the top drawer, opens it, and pulls out the nearly-new bottle of lubricant. He growls, sets it on the bed, and wraps his fingers in Hannibal's underwear, pulling them down his legs and off to join the pile of clothes littering the floor.

He stops when he sees Hannibal, completely bare for him. The hair around the base of his cock is trimmed, ashen like that on his chest. His cock is thick, red as sin against his stomach. Will's mouth waters, and he lowers his head, nuzzles Hannibal's hip and wraps his hands around his thighs, squeezing tight enough to bruise.

The scent of him here is musky, settles on Will's tongue like thick wine. He swallows, parts his jaws, and circles his fingers around the base of Hannibal's cock, holding it upright so that he can lick up the shaft. Hannibal shivers, a growl cut off behind his teeth. Will smiles, lets saliva pool in his mouth, and sucks the head of Hannibal's cock between his lips.

Hannibal's stomach sinks in, his hips twitch upwards and Will moans, relaxing his throat in an effort to take more of him, to accept Hannibal's instinctive thrust. He flattens his hands on the bedsheets, knots his fingers tightly, sinks down as much as he can. His saliva slicks his mouth, runs down Hannibal's cock, and Hannibal snarls, fisting a hand tight in Will's hair to hold him steady.

Will lets him, lets Hannibal hold his head still as he rolls his hips, chasing the heat and tightness of Will's mouth. He reaches to the side and finds the lubricant bottle, opens it and slicks his fingers, pleased when Hannibal spreads his legs in response to the sound.

He pulls back, licks clean the head of Hannibal's leaking cock, and sucks a harsh kiss to the shaft, one of his fingers sliding back behind Hannibal's balls, to where he's soft and yielding. Hannibal bends one knee to give him room and Will growls, purrs at the attention of Hannibal's free hand touching his bruised cheek.

He rears up, so that he can watch Hannibal's face as he sinks the first finger inside. Hannibal's teeth are bared in a quiet, static snarl, his eyes wide and wild as Will penetrates him. Will settles his free hand on Hannibal's chest, ravenous for the beat of his heart, the taste of his sweat. He leans down and Hannibal rears up, guides Will's mouth to his as Will's finger pushes deep.

All of him is burning hot, but Hannibal's insides are blistering, clinging tightly to Will's finger. Will growls, rude to the bone, and works in a second, meeting little resistance. Hannibal accepts him graciously, always such a polite host, and Will invades him, conquers him, drives past the resistance until he reaches Hannibal's core.

"This isn't all I want," he says, kisses the words to Hannibal's tight mouth. "I need to feel all of you. Will you wait for me?"

 _Will you wait for me_?

"Until the end of time," Hannibal replies, and his eyes are golden in the soft light in his room. Will trembles, pushes in with a third finger, scissors and flexes his fingers to stretch Hannibal out. His spine aches, his mouth is dry, he _needs_ , so desperately he doesn't think he'll ever be satisfied again. There's a monster in his stomach, and it's howling.

"Are you ready?" Will asks.

Hannibal nods, and Will pulls his fingers out, slicks the rest of the lube on his cock. He pulls Hannibal back to the center of the bed, digs his nails behind Hannibal's thick thighs, curls him up and exposes him for Will's greedy gaze.

He pushes his cock between Hannibal's legs, snarling at the soft give of his thighs, the drag of trimmed pubic hair against his cock. He pulls back, does it again, until Hannibal's patience apparently wears thin, as he reaches between his legs, takes hold of Will's cock, and guides it against his hole.

Will gasps, head thrown back, sinking in the first inch. Hannibal is tight, blisteringly hot around his sensitive flesh, his body yields and parts for Will like they've been doing this for decades. Will lets go of Hannibal's legs and falls over him, takes him by the neck and kisses him fiercely, hips rolling to fight past that next inch, then a third, then further, until he's as deep as he can go, and his hips connect with the backs of Hannibal's thighs.

Hannibal's breath crashes against Will's neck, the scent of his sweat and the fever-sweetness of him drawing Will's mouth to his throat, makes him part his jaws and kiss there, sucking a pink mark. Will shakes, knowing his skin is splitting apart. It must be. He cannot possibly contain himself like this.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, reverent. His nails drag up Will's back, helping him shed his skin, the heated cocoon, helping him evolve and arise. Will snarls, delighted with the growl he receives in answer, and starts to move.

The pace he starts is brutal, no room in him for gentleness, and yet within the fierce, powerful series of thrusts, he feels laid bare, open for his mate. He plants his hands on either side of Hannibal, meets his eyes. Their foreheads touch and Will gasps, unable to close his eyes, unable to pull away from the heat in Hannibal's dark gaze, drawing him in and on as surely as the tight, overwhelming cling of his body.

" _Fuck_ ," Will growls, body colliding, ricocheting like blowback, falling down the cliffside, dashed to pieces inside of Hannibal. The bed creaks with protest, the headboard knocks, and Hannibal reaches for him, claws him closer, kisses the curses from Will's bruised mouth and draws blood with his nails in Will's flanks.

Hannibal's body spasms when Will fucks deep, a punched-out, pleasured moan coming from deep in Hannibal's chest and Will growls, feral, desperate. He bares his teeth when one of Hannibal's hands wraps around his cock, stroking tight.

" _No_ ," Will snaps, pulling his hand away. "No. Wait for me."

Hannibal's eyes flash, challenging, daring. Will digs his nails in Hannibal's wrist, plants it on the bed.

"I want you inside me, too," Will says, forces the words out before he can no longer speak. Hannibal's chest seizes, his exhale shaken. "God, I want you to – so bad. I want to remember what that feels like."

 _I'll give you my heart if you give me yours_.

"Anything," Hannibal breathes, and it sounds like he means it, and Will can't hold on any longer. He sags, buries his face in Hannibal's neck, and thrusts as deep as he can get. His heart stutters, hips jerking and hands grabbing blindly for Hannibal's hips, forcing him down as his orgasm floods him, the butterflies abruptly taking wing. He keeps moving, fucking Hannibal through it, swallows a whimper when Hannibal's ass clenches up around him hungrily.

" _Fuck_ ," Will growls, turning his head when Hannibal pets through his hair. His eyelids flutter, close, open again, and he sucks in a deep, ragged breath. His heartbeat is roaring in his ears, blood rushing, and he's shaking for an entirely different reason now.

He pulls out, hissing as he does, and Hannibal hauls him close, kisses him fiercely. Will's entire body twitches into his hold, wants to melt and become one with him, wants to burrow into his chest and make a space for himself, block Hannibal's aorta, bleed him dry.

"Please," he begs, kisses the word to Hannibal's red lips. "I won't make you wait any more."

It is, apparently, all the permission Hannibal was waiting for. He rolls Will, flattens him on his stomach, and Will whines when Hannibal covers him, his cock rutting heavy between Will's closed thighs. Hannibal's legs cage him in, and Will hears him open the bottle of lubricant and slick his fingers before the bottle, too, joins the mess on the floor.

Hannibal's hands part his flesh, his finger sinks into Will without warning. Will hisses, oversensitive body flinching from the touch. He digs his nails into the pillows, bites down on the knotted sheets, arches his shoulders up into Hannibal's mouth when he feels Hannibal's teeth against them.

Hannibal's breath shakes, warm against Will's nape. "I have imagined, for years, what it would be like to finally touch you again." Will swallows, turns his head and leans his cheek against Hannibal's mouth. "To kiss you." He sinks another finger in, stretching Will out, and Will whines, heat curling up in his chest all over again. "To feel you come undone for me."

"Please," Will whispers, turns his head further so that he can kiss Hannibal, expose his bruised throat for his mate's tender touch. Will wasn't conscious for all those years he had to wait, but he feels them now, they blister his skin like raw wounds and he aches, _God_ , how he aches, down to his core, for Hannibal's touch. "Hannibal, _please_."

Hannibal smiles, kisses Will again, and pulls his fingers free. He spreads Will apart and Will whimpers, tenses, and closes his eyes as Hannibal's cock sinks into him, forcing him to spread and part for him. It hurts, aches in a way sharper than longing or hunger, but with it comes bone-deep satisfaction, the heat tempered down to a coal fire and waiting for new oxygen to rage.

Hannibal prowls over him, wraps his fingers in Will's and forces both their hands above their heads. Will moans, lifting up as best he can as Hannibal sinks into him. The rhythm is lazy, though Will feels the thrusts in his throat. It burns, pleasure sharp and jagged running up his spine. Hannibal kisses his shoulder, bites down on the back of his neck, and Will echoes his growl with a sharp, needy cry.

Hannibal mounts him thoroughly, covers and consumes him, and Will offers his neck and his heart to his mate, bares each and both at the same time, begs for Hannibal with every withdrawal, thanks him with every thrust. Though it is silent, he thinks Hannibal can hear him calling, runs to Will in answer. Time stands still in the place where souls and minds meet and bond.

Hannibal growls, letting go of Will's hands, and settles them on his bruised flanks, forcing him to stay still as his thrusts get more urgent, closer together. Will clenches down, hungry for his mate, desperate for him. He reaches back and catches Hannibal's hair, drags him down to a kiss as Hannibal goes abruptly still, hot and hard around and inside Will, and empties himself into Will's starving body.

They kiss, and kiss again, only a gasp to mark the end of one and the beginning of another. Will whines against Hannibal's mouth, arches for him when Hannibal's hands gentle, slide between his chest and the sheets to embrace him. He pulls out and Will winces, biting his lower lip at the slick feeling of lube and seed between his legs. Hannibal rises to his knees, gives Will room to arch up and roll over, and they settle together, entwined as closely as vines around a lattice.

Will can feel the adoration in Hannibal's touch, taste it on his tongue. He kisses Hannibal, touches him with reverence and awe, for that is what his mate deserves. He's exhausted, settled to his spine, and could not move for Hell or high water.

Hannibal pulls back, joy etched into every line on his face, and Will smiles and brushes his sweaty hair from his forehead. "I missed you," he whispers, confession-quiet.

Hannibal settles on his side and Will rolls into him, sighs as Hannibal wraps his arms around Will's shoulders and holds him close.

"I will never be parted from you again," Hannibal vows, his lips against Will's hair.

Will smiles, and closes his eyes. "I know," he replies. "Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you."

Hannibal lets out a curious noise, but Will is too tired to assure him further. He stifles a yawn against his mate's chest, nuzzles close, and pulls one edge of the duvet around them both.


	3. Chapter 3

Will is running.

He's drenched in sweat, his legs feel like they're about to give out, and there are cuts on his cheeks like someone tried to slice his face away from his jawbone. He's dizzy, and lost, running through scenery he does not see.

Behind him, a man is laughing, high-pitched and maniacal. "You can't outrun me, darling boy!" His voice sounds off, like hearing it through a static-filled radio, and while Will is not afraid, some survival instinct in him is lashing around in his chest.

He has to get away.

"Hannibal!" he yells. He was just here, wasn't he? Where is he? Will has to find him, he has to get to him, he has to -.

He rounds a corner that is not a corner, for it has no shape, no visual, no texture for him to notice and avoid, and comes face to face with the butterfly man again – the Monarch. But it is not the Monarch. Rather, he is looking at an image of himself, grinning wide and holding a knife in one hand, his gun in the other. The gun is pointing at Will, forcing him to stay in place. The knife is slick with blood and drips onto the floor by his feet.

"Not so fast," his mirror image says. "Can't outrun the past."

Will shivers. Behind him, he senses the man with the high-pitched voice getting closer, gathering smoke and storm clouds.

Behind Will's mirror, there's a body. He doesn't recognize the person, though there is little left to recognize. Blood pools around the poor creature's gutted torso, and next to it, the demon is kneeling. It holds the person's chest apart with its claws and feasts on its entrails.

Will blanches, takes a step back, and the blood-covered version of him tuts and raises his gun. "Shh," he purrs, smiling wide. "Stay a while. You know how this ends."

"Please," Will whispers, for if this is a version of himself, he must care as much as Will does; "I need to find Hannibal. I have to help him." _The Monarch is coming_.

"Oh, sweet boy," his mirror says. His smile doesn't change. "He's eating. You should know better than to come between a predator and their meal."

A hand touches Will's shoulder and he flinches, whirling around. He expects to see the Monarch, and indeed, he does, but the man's eyes, the sweep of his dark hair, is familiar. Too familiar. Another mirror. Will's eyes widen and he steps back, and the butterfly over the man's mouth flutters away, revealing a missing jaw, bloodied upper teeth that are bare and grinning at him.

The muzzle of the gun connects with his spine and he freezes again, but can't tear his eyes away from the version of himself with the missing lower jaw.

"I don't understand," he says quietly. He is still not afraid, in the way people are not afraid when they're in too much shock to feel much of anything. The version of himself with the missing jaw blinks, lazy like a sunning cat, and covers his mouth with his hand like he's stifling a laugh.

The version of him holding the gun smiles, and Will shivers when he feels the knife at his throat. "What do you see, Will?" he asks, mocking, taunting. "See your death?"

The demon's jaws crunch through the dead person's ribs, and Will flinches. It makes the blade cut and blood wells up, drips down his chest.

He hears laughter. "Look," he whispers, and turns Will in his arms, forces him closer to the dead creature and the demon, crouching above it. The demon's claws are torn deep through pale flesh, its hands and face bloodied. "I always loved watching him eat," he adds, his lips at Will's ear. Beside him, the Monarch-Will comes into view, tongue hanging down his throat, salivating thick enough that it drips down his chest like Will's blood is.

Will frowns, and looks at the body for real. Feels the knife at his throat. "You killed him," he whispers.

His mirror laughs. "No," he replies. "You did. This time."

Will swallows. "I'm not a murderer," he whispers.

The Monarch-Will laughs again, throaty and rough, and covers his jaws with his hands. The gun moves away from Will's back, as does the knife from his throat, and then Will looks down and he's holding them. His hands are slick with blood.

"…I killed him," he whispers, looks at the scene through the eyes of a profiler. The demon lifts its head at the sound of his voice, golden eyes wide and fixed on Will. "I killed him so you wouldn't go hungry."

The demon blinks at him, and smiles. It holds out his hand and Will steps forward.

Monarch-Will snarls, and lunges for him, wraps a hand around his bleeding throat and hauls him back. Will flinches at the feeling of the blood-slick tongue against his neck, it runs up his slit cheek and into his ear. He drops the gun, wraps his fingers tight around the knife as the demon stands.

"It's alright," he tells it. The demon snarls. "It'll be okay."

The Monarch laughs.

"It'll be okay," Will whispers, and closes his eyes. Darkness envelops him as claws sink into his stomach, and he falls to his knees.

 

 

Will surges awake with a sharp cry, soaked in sweat enough that he's created a giant wet spot in the sheets. The sky is dark outside, and he feels around blindly, panic welling in him when he can find no trace of Hannibal in the bed.

"Hannibal!" he yells, throwing himself out of bed. His knees buckle, and he stumbles, grabs blindly for his underwear and hauls it on. He can see light coming through the open bedroom door, and runs to it, frantic, his sweat-wet feet sliding on the wooden floor. He collides with the wall and rushes downstairs, follows his nose to the kitchen.

Hannibal is there, behind a kitchen island. He's dressed in a t-shirt and lounge pants, soft and comfortable, and Will's breath leaves him in a huge gust. He feels like he might sink through the floor in relief.

"Hannibal," he whispers.

Hannibal's eyes snap up, widen when he sees Will's disheveled state. "Are you alright?" he asks.

Will wants to lie. Wants to play it off and apologize, make up an excuse, say anything that will erase the worry in Hannibal's eyes.

But he can't. He doesn't. Not with his mate.

He shakes his head, and goes to Hannibal, holds him tightly and buries his face in Hannibal's neck. He's sure he's gross, slick with sweat and stinking, but Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. He embraces Will tightly, nuzzling his temple.

His touch calms Will, settles his rolling stomach and quiets his heart. Will pulls back, breathes in deeply, and opens his eyes to see what Hannibal was working on.

His breath catches. There, on a cutting board, is a heart. It's large, blushing red, and looks fresh, juice creating a fine pool around the organ. He swallows, unable to tear his eyes away from it.

"Are you hungry?" Hannibal asks, whisper-quiet.

Will swallows again. "Starving," he rasps. He thinks to the standing man, the one the Ripper killed, the one missing his heart. Thinks of his dream, with the demon devouring his victim's organs. Thinks of Hannibal feeding him, how the food he served had felt so good to consume, just as the man himself is.

"I will feed you," Hannibal murmurs, his hand settling warm between Will's bare shoulder blades. Will's shoulders roll, though not to fight the touch off. Rather, he feels like he's arching into it.

He looks at Hannibal, searches his face. Licks his lips and tastes blood. Hannibal's eyes drop to his mouth, a different type of hungry, and Will's gut clenches.

"I'm confused," he whispers.

Hannibal blinks, head tilting. "About what?"

"I think…I might have been wrong about some things," Will says. His fingers curl and he drums his knuckles against the countertop, twice in quick succession. Though Hannibal's eyes are dark, his mouth softens with fond amusement. Will clears his throat.

Hannibal doesn't reply, but stands patiently, waiting for Will to speak.

"I thought the Monarch was after you," Will continues. "That I got in the way. And that's why he killed me. But…that's not true, is it?"

Hannibal sighs, and smiles. "No, darling," he replies.

"You didn't catch him," Will says. "I was dead, and you didn't catch him."

Hannibal swallows, and averts his eyes to the heart on his kitchen island. "It felt…wrong," he says, after a while.

Will frowns. "Wrong?"

"I caught him, and I would have done…all manner of unseemly things to him, out of vengeance," Hannibal says, and Will doesn't doubt it for a second. "But without you, it would have been an empty victory. It would not have brought you back to me. So, I left. And he disappeared. And I waited."

"You waited," Will says. His voice is flat, too static for emotion. He looks back at the heart, and swallows, his throat suddenly thick. "My God, you must be starving."

"Ravenous," Hannibal replies. He looks back at Will and Will meets his eyes.

He swallows. "I will feed you," he whispers. It feels right to say it, and he wants to say it, just as desperately as he thinks Hannibal wants to hear it. Even as he speaks, Hannibal's eyes brighten, that fierce hope blazing again. "You waited until we could catch him together, didn't you?"

"I took my pound of flesh," Hannibal replies. "But, yes."

Will nods. "He knows I'm here," he says, stepping closer. He rests a hand on Hannibal's chest, finds his heartbeat, curls and digs his nails in. Hannibal cups his bruised cheek, tightens his arm around Will's shoulders. "Now that I'm working with Jack again, he knows I can see him."

Hannibal sighs, pressing their foreheads together.

"Was I always a monster, like you?" Will asks.

"Not a monster, no," Hannibal replies, and he says it like he means it. "You have always been the most beautiful creature in the world. It is dark without your presence within it."

Will smiles. "This would make a fine story," he says.

Hannibal laughs, and kisses him. "Then let us see it to its end."

 

 

"I suppose it makes sense," Will says, halfway through his meal of the heart Hannibal prepared for them. He spent the time Hannibal was cooking by going home, showering, walking Winston and answering Alana's text messages demanding to know where he was and if he was alright, and apologizing to Molly about the fight he will not be able to attend tonight. When he'd explained to her that he'd met his soulmate and would be out of commission for a while, she'd congratulated him profusely and demanded to know all the details once he returned.

He's not sure he will. But that's a problem for a future version of himself he need not yet meet.

"Oh?" Hannibal asks.

Will hums, taking another bite. The meat of the heart is rich and thick, and tastes wonderful, breaded and fried to a tender mouthful. Another meal eagerly welcomed by his stomach. He hasn't felt sick at all since Hannibal fed him, and wonders if his unexplained illness could be put down to something as simple as diet.

"The need to fight, the nightmares, the…feeling of being watched," Will murmurs, taking a sip of wine. "Being murdered is bound to leave some kind of imprint on the soul."

"Suggesting all troubled souls are reincarnates that were cut short?" Hannibal asks, amused. "I suppose it's possible. It would explain a fair amount of psychological issues."

Will laughs. He regards Hannibal fondly, his eyes on the flex of Hannibal's hands as he cuts himself another bite of the heart. The part of his lips when he takes his bite, the way his jaw moves as he chews, his throat when he swallows. The creature in his chest purrs at the sight of his mate, so fine and poised.

 _Beautiful_ , Will's mind whispers to him. _He's beautiful._

"I have been plagued with a dogged determination since youth," Will says. "Perhaps I was always like that."

"You were certainly driven, yes," Hannibal says mildly. "When we hunted together, and you had chosen your target, I could not dissuade you." He pauses. "Not that I ever wanted to."

Will hums, smiling. "We do have one problem," he says. Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "If we kill him, and not his mate, he will return. I would see him ended completely."

"Rip the weed out by the root?" Hannibal asks.

Will nods. "Do you think a man like that could have a mate?"

"I have you," Hannibal replies. "And you have me."

"Yes," Will says, his chest warm with the reminder. "But this mate may be innocent. At least, to some degree."

"What are your thoughts, darling?"

Will blushes, smiling as a lovesick teenager might. He never thought himself a big fan of pet names, and yet hearing Hannibal call him such terms of endearment, he cannot deny the flush of pleasure he feels upon hearing them.

"You and I are destined to grow old together," he murmurs, and Hannibal nods, eyes bright. "Without his mate, he will not age. He will not die. But, perhaps, he will suffer long enough to sate us both."

"Not a quick death, then."

"Never."

"Tell me."

Will smiles, and tilts his head to one side. He sets down his knife and fork and rests his elbows on the table, fingers laced to support his chin. "Perhaps we could starve him," he says. Hannibal's eyes darken, eager; he leans forward to hear Will as his voice gets low. "Pay him back for all the years you denied your hunger."

"We could devour him ourselves," Hannibal replies. "Piece by piece."

Will shivers, and bares his teeth in a smile. "I'd like that."

"First, beloved, we must catch him."

Will nods, pressing his lips together. "Perhaps we can enrage him," he murmurs. "If you were to laud your victory over him. Make him think he's lost."

Hannibal smiles, showing his teeth. "Will you join me?" he asks. "I confess, hunting with you again, it is a desire I have kept burning brightly within me. I wish to see you in all your splendor."

Will is nodding before Hannibal has finished speaking, a jittery energy rising up in his stomach. Oh, he's so _hungry_. "We will make a masterpiece," he says. "Together."

Hannibal smiles, wide and welcoming. A wolf and his mate, prowling through the undergrowth. "I have missed you dearly, Will."

"I know," Will replies, and reaches out. Hannibal takes his hand, and their fingers lace. "I will never leave again."

 

 

"Upon our heads will sit a crown of gold. We are ascended, gods amongst men. Supplicants kneel before our altar, begging for mercy, for the forgiveness of their sins, but we are not merciful gods. We are decadence, and pride. We stand upon the great mountain of triumph, and gaze upon our kingdom and see it is good.

This is our design."

The two men are intertwined, their intestines woven together and falling at the feet of a third. He has his hands lifted as though to catch them, wishing to taste just a little of their victory. From the heads of the standing men sprout butterfly bushes, delicately threaded with Monarchs. The kneeling man's lower jaw is missing, cast to one side, his legs ripped from him to sate their hunger. The men's hearts are gone, for they will be consumed in a victory feast, a festival the likes of which have never been seen before. The kneeling man bears a butterfly carved into his back, his spine revealed to make the body of the butterfly – a tease, a taunt.

The standing men embrace, their eyes open and only for each other. One of them has been bled dry, the other burned into place as a steadfast monument to patience and time. They are all ageless, for Will would not kill a mated couple, would not give their mates the same heartache that his has suffered.

The lungs of the king are gone, as well as the liver of the mate, every organ in the kneeling man hollowed out but discarded, for he is not worth the meal. Will feasts, and feels alive, and does not dream.

He kisses Hannibal when they return home, guides him upstairs and opens his arms, spreads his legs as Hannibal falls against him, crashing and colliding like a rockslide. Hannibal touches him with reverence, drinks the moans and cries from Will's mouth, uses his tongue to lay marks across the healing bruises on Will's neck. Will bites him in turn, takes his own pound of flesh and leaves a welt that's raw and ruinous on Hannibal's thigh.

"Give me your heart," he demands, when Hannibal is deep inside of him, piercing him with his love, shredding the skin from his back. The demon in Hannibal's eyes, in Will's mind, rears up proudly, looks upon his mate with his golden gaze, and Will kisses him, licks the blood from Hannibal's teeth, tightens his legs around Hannibal's waist as Hannibal fucks him mercilessly.

"Take it," Hannibal replies, worshipful, masterful in the way he touches Will, every sensitive place well-mapped and well-loved. He thrusts in deeply, growls the words against Will's sweaty neck, rakes his nails down Will's flanks and holds him fast so he doesn't fly away. Outside, the butterflies are hidden, thunderstorms and a cold snap driving them south again.

But inside, the air is blazing, fires of Hell and heat driving them higher, buoyant, victorious. Will cries out sharply as Hannibal's cock hits a sensitive spot inside of him, makes his stomach clench and his lungs seize. He's heavy, sated yet ravenous, and he wants to roar.

Hannibal slows, growling with triumph at having found that secret, raw place inside of Will. He rolls his hips, digs his nails in, and Will moans, head thrown back, throat bared. "Please," he whispers, clawing at Hannibal's chest. "Please, _please_ , oh _fuck_ -."

"Show me, Will," Hannibal demands, snarls the words from the pit of his chest. He fucks in again, again, wraps gentle fingers around Will's cock and strokes him in time with the pounding of their hearts, synced up, bonded. "My love, show me." He sounds broken, strangled, a noose around his neck that Will holds.

Will whimpers, jaw clenching hard enough that his cheek flares in protest. "Don't stop," he begs, digging his nails into Hannibal's chest, tightening his thighs. Hannibal trembles in his arms, fucks in deep. "Don't fucking stop. Keep going, keep going, _please_ -."

His stomach tightens, plummets abruptly. He arches up, gasping at the sudden give, spilling thick and hot over Hannibal's hand and between their chests. Hannibal lets go of his cock immediately, flattens his dirty hand on Will's neck and kisses him roughly as Will moans and shakes under him. Hannibal grunts, going still, and Will sighs when Hannibal's hands turn gentle, his own orgasm leaving him lax and sated in Will's arms.

He pulls out and Will sighs, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. He huffs a laugh, and looks down at his hands. "Glad it's not my water bill," he says, as this is easily the third shower each of them will have taken today.

Hannibal makes a rough, tired, amused sound. "Thankfully," he replies dryly. Will smiles, and rolls onto his side so he can see Hannibal, admire the flush of exertion staining his face and neck, the red lines Will's nails left on his chest and arms.

Will smiles, and shuffles closer, stealing another kiss from Hannibal's lax mouth. "Do you think he'll like our present?" he murmurs.

Hannibal huffs a laugh. "I think it will enrage him beyond measure."

Will's smile widens, and he closes his eyes. "Good."

 

 

 

Will looks up as Alana enters the apartment. She stops when she sees him, her face flashing through a myriad of emotions before settling on playfully annoyed. "Oh, wow, you left your love nest and decided to visit little ol' me!" she declares, but she's grinning, and rushes forward to embrace him tightly.

Will hugs her back, rolling his eyes. Then, he stops, and holds her at arm's length. He cocks his head to one side, taking her in. "You're different," he says, slowly.

She grins, and winks at him. "Maybe."

"What's different?" Will asks, looking her up and down. "You get laid or something?"

"Pot, kettle," she replies, rolling her eyes and shrugging him off. "But, if you must know, if you even _care_ ," she adds dramatically. "I met my soulmate!"

"What?" Will blinks, and then his face splits into a wide grin. "That's awesome! Tell me everything."

"Her name is Margot Verger," Alana replies. "I met her at a charity event the university was holding. She's gorgeous, and cute, and -."

"Wait, Margot _Verger_? The heiress?"

Alana winks at him.

"You son of a -. What the Hell?" Will demands. "You met her through the app?"

"Yep," Alana replies, popping the 'P'. "Went to her estate for the weekend. Her brother's a total creep, by the way."

Will frowns.

"He, I mean, I don't want to be mean or anything – he's a creep without his weird face – but he has this, like, scarring all over his mouth. Like someone tried to cut off his jaw or something."

Will's breath catches, and he thinks of the Monarch in his dream with the missing jaw. Thinks of Hannibal ripping it off with his bare hands. "Really," he asks, flatly.

"Yeah." Alana shrugs. "And he's just, well, creepy in general. You'd probably have a hoot writing about him if he killed someone."

Will laughs, though it's strained. "So, your mate is an heiress, mine's a filthy rich psychiatrist…you think our souls are gold diggers?"

"I think we're just lucky," she replies, smiling. "I just came home to get some more stuff and shower. I'm meeting Margot again for lunch." She stops, and looks at him. "You and Hannibal should join me! We could have a double date. It'd be fun."

Will nods. "Sure," he replies. "I want to meet this creepy brother."

Alana rolls her eyes. "Well, I'm leaving in about an hour. Go to your man and tell him to make himself presentable."

Will laughs, but lets her hustle him out the door.

 

 

He doesn't know what he expected the Verger estate to look like, but he's sure whatever he came up with would have paled in comparison to the real thing. The air reeks of money, the well-manicured lawn a rich green that reminds Will of jade. The house itself is reminiscent of Regency-Era European architecture and brings to Will's mind fuzzy half-memories of Italy, of France, of places with dark narrow alleys and walls made of gold. There is a fountain in the middle of the front lawn, balconies of stone that make him feel like he just stepped into a scene of _Pride and Prejudice_.

He lets out a low whistle and catches Alana's eye in the passenger mirror. "An _heiress_ ," he says, and she rolls her eyes and jabs his shoulder with her blunt nails.

Beside him, in the driver's seat, Hannibal lets out a huff of amusement. "It certainly makes an impression," he says lightly. "I remember Molson Verger – Margot's father. It's impolite to speak ill of the dead, but I will say a widely-accepted truth is that he was a wholly unpleasant man."

Alana presses her lips together. "I don't think Margot inherited any of her father's temperament."

"No." Hannibal smiles at Alana via the rear-view mirror, showing his teeth. "I can't imagine your mate to be anything like him."

Alana's cheeks turn pink and she smiles down at her lap, a picture of blushing joy. Will would tease her, but he knows he's no better. He slides a hand across the middle console of Hannibal's beautifully, extravagantly luxurious car, and settles his palm on his mate's thigh.

He had told Hannibal what Alana described to him regarding Mason Verger. Hannibal had told him he'd caught the man who killed Will once before, but lost track of him when he moved out of Florence. Will isn't sure, at the time, if he'd believed him, but if Mason Verger is the man, then there's very little this amount of money couldn't buy. Hannibal is wealthy, but Mason is sickeningly so, and if he wanted to cover his tracks, he would need that kind of wealth to do it, from someone such as Hannibal.

Still, he does not yet know for sure. Hannibal is the only one who can recognize him on sight.

Hannibal pulls up in front of the estate, and turns off the engine. As they all get out of the car, the doors open. Will freezes, his eyes wide.

The first person is easiest to spot – he's a giant, hulking man, bald and with a terrible knot of scar tissue on his cheek. A wound Will himself dealt – it's the man he fought, the one whose handprint still lingers in soft yellows on his neck. He meets the man's beady little eyes, and when he grins at Will, he bares crooked teeth. Will wants to snarl back at him.

He tears his gaze away, looks upon Margot Verger – she's beautiful, a mix of pinks and russet and bronze, her clothes flattering but not overly-tight. Her eyes are large, green, and seem to rake over each of them in turn before settling on Alana and softening so suddenly that Will can't keep his eyes on her. It feels rude, to bear witness.

And so, his attention must fall to the third. A man, in a wheelchair, which had been pushed out by Cordell. He has a thick mess of artfully disarrayed hair on his head, greyed out as hair does when one is a brunet and tries to go too light too fast. He's dressed in a linen suit, the kind that probably has more zeroes in its price tag than it should.

His face -.

Thirty years is a long time for something to heal. Will looks upon the man and knows he is staring at Mason Verger. The lower half of his face is a smooth plane of knotted flesh, scar tissue raking lines up under his heavy-lidded eyes. He cannot completely close his mouth – it sits open, his lower teeth exposed, and when he meets Will's gaze, his tongue snakes out to wet them.

Something in Will recoils at the sight, and he turns his head to look at Hannibal, finds his face purposely impassive, but there's a shadow in his eyes that betrays recognition.

"Is it him?" Will whispers, turning his head and leaning in so not even Alana can hear him.

Hannibal swallows, and reaches out and takes Will's hand. He squeezes gently. "Yes," he whispers, and it's deafening and almost completely silent at the same time. Will doesn't think he has ever seen such raw, untethered rage in another person.

He smiles. "Looks like you took more than a pound of flesh," he says, hoping to amuse. It seems to incense Hannibal, instead, his jaw clenching and bulging at the corner at the reminder of a job unfinished.

"Alana!" Margot breaks the silence and rushes towards Alana, who comes forward to meet her. They embrace tightly, and Will smiles, squeezing Hannibal's hand as he watches them.

"Hi," Alana says, smiling wide enough that if Will were to try and do the same, he'd likely hurt himself. "Margot, this is my best friend, Will, and his mate, Doctor Lecter."

"Pleased to meet you," Margot says, holding out her hand. Hannibal takes it, kissing the back of her knuckles, and she smiles, letting out a pleased hum. Behind her, the crunch and crackle of gravel alerts them to another approach. "Will, Doctor Lecter, this is my brother, Mason, and his nurse, Cordell."

Mason looks up at Margot, takes her hand and pats it like she's a child. "No need for introductions, Margot," he says, nasal and high. Will shivers, because he recognizes that voice.

_You can't outrun me, darling boy!_

Margot blinks at her brother, and frowns. Mason turns to look at Will first, then Hannibal, the smooth flatness of his cheeks twitching like he's trying to smile. "We've met before. Many years ago."

Hannibal's face is as smooth as Mason's, but Will would be nervous if the anger in eyes were fixed on him. "It's been a long time," he replies, as cordially as he can manage. "I'm so pleased to see the years have been kind to you, Mason."

Will's mouth twitches, and he swallows. Margot clears her throat and turns to Alana. "Will you come to the stables with me?" she asks. "I want to show you something."

Mason crows with delight, clapping his hands together. "A little roll in the hay, eh?" he says, wetting his tongue obscenely across what's left of his mouth. Will stifles a growl, but sees Cordell's hands tighten on the handles of Mason's wheelchair, and when he meets Cordell's eyes, he sees readiness there. Oh, he's _itching_ for a fight. "That's alright," Mason continues when the women merely greet his question with uncomfortable silence. "Doctor Lecter and I have so much catching up to do. I'm sure we'll find some way to entertain ourselves. Go on, Margot! Have fun!"

He slaps her on the ass, hard enough that she winces, and Will is glad Hannibal is still holding him, slides his hand up Will's arm cobra-quick to stop him lunging.

Margot, to her credit, laughs it off well enough. She steps away from Mason, links her fingers through Alana's, and Alana smiles at Will and Hannibal, tight at the corners of her mouth. Will watches her go, until they're out of earshot and round the corner of the estate mansion.

There is a moment of silence, stretched too-tight and fraying like a rubber band ready to snap. Will doesn't know where to put his eyes – nowhere feels safe. He's infuriated, even in so short a time, and he knows if he were to act on any of his rage, Hannibal would not only not stop him, but would probably join in.

He has to be calm. For now. Until the timing is right.

This is a hunt, after all. Can't just go in guns blazing.

Mason crows again, clapping his hands together – meaty, heavy. Will winces, imagines them coming down on his back. "Would anyone care for a drink?"

 

 

The innards of the Verger estate are impressive, Will can admit to that. The floor is marble and polished hardwood, there are pillars of shining gold-green swirls of marble, stairs that lead up to a second floor splaying out in invitation like the entrance to a grand ballroom as they step inside. The windows are high and arching, framed with sheer curtains that remind Will of butterfly wings, and make the air appear silver.

"Doctor Lecter, it really is good to see you again," Mason says as Cordell wheels him into a lavish sitting room and sets him to a halt around an ornate wooden table. There is a white couch, framed with gold at the feet and the backrest. Hannibal and Will sit upon it. "Can I offer you a drink? Are you still fond of Chianti?"

Hannibal's mouth twitches. "A little early for wine, don't you think?"

"There is no better time like the present, old friend!" Mason says, and claps his hands together. "Cordell, be a dear and fetch us a bottle."

Will's eyes narrow on the big man, as he nods and leaves the room. His fingers twitch. There is nothing in his immediate vicinity that could be used as a weapon, and even if they were to injure and subdue Mason, Cordell would still be a threat.

But Will can take him. He's done it before.

Mason hums, and Will's eyes snap to him. There's a sharpness there, a feral thread of something ravenous – but not in the controlled, keen way Hannibal looks at him. This is a rabid dog, a coyote feasting on whatever it can find, too injured and diseased to be as cunning as its cousins.

Still, it makes his skin crawl, and he wishes he had brought something to defend himself. Even if Mason is in a wheelchair, Will feels threatened.

Hannibal sits forward, partially blocking Mason's view of Will, and Will breathes out, turns his head down and away. "Speaking of presents," Hannibal says mildly. "How have you been faring with mine?"

Will looks to Mason, sees his eyes flash and his knuckles turn white around the arm of his chair. Still, it looks like he tries to smile. "It's a very special gift, to be given the luxury of knowing the meaning of true loyalty," Mason replies. "You learn who your friends really are when you lose your pretty face."

Hannibal smiles. "Forgive me, Mason, but your sister was always the pretty one."

Will clears his throat so that he doesn't laugh.

Mason, though, seems to find this just as funny. "I suppose it takes one to know one," he says, his nasal voice lisping the words. Like a snake. Will swallows when Mason's eyes move to him again, rake down his body. He might as well be naked with how hungrily Mason regards him. "I must say, you were pretty in your past life, but now you're a work of _art_."

Will bristles, pushes his thumb against his other hand and whitens his bruised knuckles. Beside him, he feels Hannibal tense. "I remember you," he whispers, raising his eyes, regarding Mason under the falling curls of his hair. Mason shifts his weight, a strange-sounding pleased trill coming from his gaping mouth. "Time hasn't been kind to you."

Mason huffs, and Cordell returns with a bottle of wine, wrapped at the bottom in thin palm strands, and three glasses. He sets them down on the little table, uncorks the bottle and pours the wine into each glass until they are all half full.

Mason sits forward, takes his glass, swirls it. Hannibal follows suit, breathing in the wine deeply. Will takes his glass, but does not drink it, does not smell it. He watches, rapt and curious, as Mason slides his tongue out to dip it in the wine. Without his lips, he cannot drink properly, so he laps at it like a dog, slobbering down his chin and staining his white linen suit.

Will smiles.

Mason sighs, lowering his glass, his eyes turning to Cordell who stands like a statue in the space between Will and the window, his shadow cast long and wide across the three of them. "I suppose," Mason begins, "if you remember me, you remember…other things."

Will nods. He plays idly with his glass, turning the stem around and around but not drinking from it, absently watching the dark liquid swirl. Hannibal, too, has taken only a sip of his, and holds it lax, balanced on the arm of the sofa.

"Some of it was more wishful thinking than others," Will says.

Mason hums. "Oh?"

"Yes. I had dreams of biting out your tongue. Clearly I didn't succeed."

Mason laughs. "Oh, but my darling boy, you did!" Will frowns, and Mason sits up, his eyes gleaming brightly. He parts his jaws wide and lets his tongue fall out and Will tilts his head to one side, looking past the slick gleam of saliva and wine, and sees a slight indent, a scar that crosses the entirety of Mason's tongue and dips into the sides.

Hannibal must realize something he doesn't, because he lets out a low growl. "You wretch."

Mason laughs, shrugging and pulling his tongue back. "It's not like he was using it."

Will blinks, and then recoils when he understands just what, exactly, Mason meant. "You…took my tongue?" he asks, whisper-quiet. He has to set the wine glass down, lest he break it and stain the material below him.

Mason laughs. "And pieces of your face, too," he replies, hands spread out like the mutilation was the result of inevitability, and he was helpless to fight it. He touches his jaw, purrs as his fingers brush down the smooth skin. "You had such a pretty face."

Will might be sick. Anger, disgust, rage, they all rear up like a three-headed beast in his chest and he wants, _oh_ how he wants, to lunge for Mason right then.

Cordell's presence holds him back, and the agreement with Hannibal that they weren't going to kill Mason. Any death would be too quick for him, and Will has never wanted him to suffer more. Still, he cannot keep the anger out of his voice when he says; "I wish you were mated, so that I could send you to Hell for good."

"Come on, darling boy, don't be like that." Will growls under his breath, bristling, hackles raised at the pet name. "We could have a lot of fun together, you and I."

"You killed me," Will replies sharply. "I want nothing to do with you."

Mason hums, sliding his tongue over what's left of his lips again. His eyes are cold, assessing. "Maybe third time's the charm," he says, and Hannibal visibly tenses next to Will. "I'll catch you younger, next go around. I like them young."

Will stands, abruptly, and forgets that he's supposed to remain calm, that they have a plan, that Hannibal would not appreciate that plan being abruptly changed.

But it doesn't seem to matter, for Hannibal is standing as well, his normally cool mask cracked into an expression of open rage. He's glowing with it, heat radiating from him like the wrath of God, and Will feels alive within its flames.

He steps close, brushes his arm against Hannibal's, and murmurs; "Perhaps we should go see what Alana and Margot are up to."

Hannibal exhales, loudly, his fingers curled into tight fists. "Perhaps we should," he says, but the snarl in his voice makes the words almost unrecognizable.

Mason crows with delight. "Leaving so soon?" he asks. Will's attention is caught as Cordell's shadow moves, shifting closer. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Just when we were starting to have some fun!"

Will doesn't hesitate. He reaches forward and grabs his wineglass, flips it and smashes it against the edge of the table to use the stem as a makeshift weapon. Cordell rushes him, slamming his meaty shoulder against Will's chest and sends them both tumbling over the back of the couch.

Will grunts, winded, and lashes out wildly with the shattered glass. Cordell's face is close, enough that Will can smell the rotten stench of his breath, see the wild feral look in his eyes. Then, an arm wraps around Cordell's neck and Hannibal's face comes into view. He yanks the man back and Cordell grunts, clawing at his chest, and stumbles back so that Hannibal collides with the wall behind them, his body cushioning Cordell's.

Will snarls, and rolls to his feet. He lunges for the man and stabs the wine glass stem through his neck, but it's too short and too blunt for his aim to be true. Hannibal drops behind him and Cordell roars, kicking Will in the stomach and sending him back.

Will circles the couch, puts it between him and Cordell, and Hannibal follows suit on his other side.

"Will," he murmurs, and Will looks to see that Mason's wheelchair is no longer occupied.

He growls. "Go find him," he says, and puts his eyes back on Cordell. His chest is fluttering with the jittery energy, the rush before a fight filling him up to the brim. He wants to shed his skin and flay this man alive, wants to rip him to shreds to the point where it would take Beverly years to put him back together.

He's fought Cordell before. Which means Mason has been watching him, maybe for years. It fills him with a rage he cannot name.

"I've got this."

"Will," Hannibal says again. He sounds uncertain, unsure.

"He can't get away," Will says sharply, and spares a glance to his mate. Hannibal's indecision is palpable, and Will understands why, but they don't have time to debate this. "If he gets away, then he wins. He can't _win_ , Hannibal."

Hannibal's jaw clenches, and he nods. "Come back to me," he murmurs.

Will smiles. "I will if you will."

Hannibal rushes from the room, and Cordell lets out a low snarl, lunging to follow. Will jumps up on the couch and over it, landing heavily on Cordell's back, and jams his fist against the jutting stem of the wine glass, still buried in his neck. Cordell grunts, and falls to his hands and knees. They're by a fireplace, and he reaches for one of the iron pokers, turns it and stabs wildly under his arm, catching Will's flank.

Will hisses, rolling to one side when Cordell straightens, and clutches his side. It's bleeding heavily, a straight shot through and out the other side. Cordell is strong and the poker, though thick, is sharp. He swings, and Will doesn't duck in time, catches the tip across his forehead and loses half his vision to a waterfall of blood. He catches himself on the back of the couch, gritting his teeth in pain.

Cordell swings the poker again and Will darts back, and it hits the couch instead, which is now splattered cow print-style with wine and blood. He swings it again, relying on the superior reach and the sturdiness of the iron, and Will backs away, flinches out of reach, and tries to find another weapon.

He sees, buried in the gleam of Mason's chair, what looks like a knife sheath. He wonders, absently, if Mason was going to use it on him.

He jumps over the couch, grunting when Cordell lunges for him and catches him by the waist, hauling him back and throwing him onto the floor towards the door. As slick with blood as he is, Will slides an extra foot or so, catches himself on the open door and rolls to his hands and knees.

His stomach hurts terribly, and he wipes his forearm across his eyes to clear his vision. He hears Cordell's lumbering footsteps approach and shoves himself to his feet, darts to the side and uses Mason's wheelchair as a cover to protect him from another swing of the iron poker. He reaches for the knife sheath and pulls it to him, pulling the knife free. It's a long, gleaming blade, serrated on one edge.

He smiles. "Perfect."

The wheelchair is abruptly lifted from his back, sent crashing towards the window in a rain of shattered glass and bent metal, and Will flinches, rolling to his feet. He has the knife clenched tightly in his bloody hand, and stands low to the ground, ready to strike.

Cordell grins at him. His neck and chest is a macabre picture of blood, matching the ugly welt on his face that Will's teeth left.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you," he growls.

Will smiles. "Likewise."

Cordell growls, face black with rage, and rushes him. He angles the poker up, aiming for Will's heart, and Will catches it, forces it through his shoulder instead with a sharp hiss of pain, and slams the knife into Cordell's neck.

Cordell's eyes go wide, and Will's smile is off-kilter and wide to match. He jerks the knife across the bigger man's throat, and blood spurts from his neck, bathing Will from neck to toe. Cordell goes limp against him, too heavy to hold, and Will steps back, falling to his knees as Cordell's meaty hand rips the poker from his shoulders. He collapses, clutching his shoulder, and throws the knife away.

It goes skittering, and stops, and Will hears a loud gasp. He looks up and finds Alana and Margot watching him, their eyes wide and glazed with shock.

Cordell's body twitches, gurgles its last breath, and Will breathes out, closing his eyes.

"Oh my God, Will!" Alana shrieks, running to him and falling to her knees in the pool of blood, her hands fluttering frantically over his injuries. Will is bleeding heavily, weak, and collapses against her, his forehead on her shoulder.

"Find Hannibal," he whispers.

"Will, we need to get you to a hospital," Alana says. "Margot, call an ambulance! Please!"

"Find Hannibal," Will says again, pawing at Alana's arm to get her attention. He can barely lift his head, but he forces himself to, his vision greying out at the edges when he meets her eyes. "He's with Mason. Mason will hurt him. Find him, Alana. Please."

"I will," Alana replies, frantic and strained. "Just – just stay awake, okay? Stay with me."

Will huffs, managing a tight smile. "How bad does it look?"

Alana swallows. "A ten."

"Damn," Will murmurs. He feels dizzy, and retches, torn stomach heaving at the coppery scent of bad blood. His head hurts, dull and throbbing in time with his slowing heart.

"Stay awake!" Alana demands, slapping his cheek lightly. "Stay with me. Come on." Will hums, and closes his eyes. He can hear Margot's voice, soft and quick. Calling an ambulance, maybe. Will can't see, doesn't know if she's on the phone or not, can't make out what she's saying. "Stay awake! Come on, you stubborn asshole."

"I'm awake," Will mutters. "I'm awake."

Then, he isn't.

 

 

Will comes to in a bed. He can feel itchy bandages around his torso, from one side of his neck, over his shoulder, down to his stomach. He groans, and twitches when the scent of food fills his lungs. He breathes it in deeply, combined with a familiar lemongrass scent, and sighs.

A door opens, and his eyelids flutter. Hannibal appears in the doorway, a tray with a steaming bowl in his hands. He looks almost close to dropping it, before he recovers, and sets it on the table at the end of his bed, before he rushes to Will. Will rolls onto his other side, his good side, and puts his face in Hannibal's hands.

"Hey," he says, voice hoarse and flat.

Hannibal's fingers shake when they pet through his hair, which is greasy and damp. When Will opens his eyes and meets his mate's, Hannibal's eyes are bright with tears of relief, with joy. Will smiles. "How long was I out?"

"Two days," Hannibal replies. "I gave you a sedative to help you sleep."

Will hums, forces his arm to move tiredly so his hand can settle on Hannibal's arm. "I'm here," he murmurs. "I'm fucked up, but I'm here."

"That you are," Hannibal murmurs.

Will opens his eyes again, sighs heavily. There's a bruise on Hannibal's cheek, a faded cut across his nose and deep circles under his eyes, like he hasn't slept for all the time Will was unconscious. "Mason?" he asks.

Hannibal's eyes flash to the bowl he brought in. "Starving," he replies.

Will's mouth twitches in a smile, and he sucks in a breath. "Alana saw," he says. "She saw me kill Cordell."

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs. "As did Margot."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth," Hannibal replies. Will frowns, licks his dry lips. "We were attacked, and Mason ordered Cordell to try and kill us both. It was self-defense."

Will hums. "And Mason?"

"Disappeared," Hannibal replies. "No one knows what happened to him."

Will's mouth twitches in a smile. "How elegant."

Hannibal makes a rough, relieved sound, and Will sighs as he feels soft lips on his forehead. "I saw you," he murmurs. "I saw you, half-dead in Alana's arms. It was my worst fear realized. I could not have survived losing you a second time."

"You didn't," Will says tiredly. "I promised I wouldn't leave."

"I know, darling," Hannibal murmurs. He kisses Will's forehead again, over the tender mark where the poker hit, and Will's forehead throbs dully at the ache. He itches, and rubs at his forehead, feeling stitches.

He huffs. "This your handiwork?" he asks.

Hannibal nods.

"Feels rushed."

"I apologize," Hannibal replies. "I'm out of practice, and I wasn't exactly thinking clearly."

"I forgive you."

"I'm glad."

Will hums again, sighs, and opens his eyes, trying to sit up. Hannibal helps him, piles pillows high behind his shoulders, so he can sit upright. "Where is Mason?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles. "Somewhere where he can live out the rest of his days, hungry, alone." Will blinks at him. "In the basement of the Verger estate. Margot volunteered a room."

Will huffs. The Monarch in the shadow box. "So she's in on it, huh?"

"She has no love for her brother," Hannibal replies. "She's a reasonable woman. I quite like her."

"Should I feel jealous?"

Hannibal's expression is soft, fond and amused. "Never, my love."

"And Alana?"

"Also reasonable," Hannibal says. "Once I explained to her our…particular history with Mason. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to take a stab at him, herself."

Will nods, sighing. He feels settled, tired to the bone, but light at the same time. The jittery energy he has come to accept as part of his personality is gone, put to sleep like an injured animal. His vengeance, though half-formed and new, is providing wonderful sustenance. When he hungers again, he will visit Mason, and delight in his victory.

He turns to Hannibal, touches his face lightly, traces his thumb over the bruise on his cheek.

"So, this is it," he murmurs, and Hannibal blinks at him, cupping his hand with both his own and kissing Will's knuckles. "The beginning of the rest of our lives. What happens now?"

"Whatever you'd like," Hannibal replies. "The Monarch is gone, and we are both well-fed. We can go anywhere, do anything. Limited only by our imagination."

Will smiles. "I'd like to write about this," he says. "From somewhere quiet. Removed, where there is only you and me."

Hannibal's smile widens. "I would like to show you Florence," he says. "I think, with you, I could bring myself to journey back there, and see how it has changed."

Will nods, and leans in for a kiss. Hannibal answers him, eager as always. "Florence sounds wonderful."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I hope you enjoyed the ride :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for The Monarch Butterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16547834) by [khalexx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khalexx/pseuds/khalexx)




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